


I Can't Find You in the Body Sleeping Next to Me

by thistleghost



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Belonging, Canon compliant-ish, Child Viktor, Cuddling, Depression, Dream Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Homophobia, I promise, Loneliness, M/M, Medical Procedures, Scars, Sleeping Together, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Surgery, True Love, Viktor's family is evil, Yuuri's family is perfect, child yuuri, very happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistleghost/pseuds/thistleghost
Summary: Yuuri looks from his own bone-white mark to the deep, shiny scar on Viktor's wrist and something within him snaps. Of course. Of course it's all too good to be true. There is enough light caught in the feathery halo of Viktor's silver hair to blind him, enough charm in his blue eyes to enchant the entire world. Beside this sleeping god, Yuuri is small and dull and broken. Unworthy. Worthless.(Or: Yuuri finds Viktor at last, only to realize that his soulmate doesn't want him.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone loves a good soulmate AU, right? And what's better than an angsty soulmate AU with lots of crying and cuddling? (Nothing. The answer is nothing.) 
> 
> I'll try to post at least a chapter a day! Comments make me melt with happiness and dance like drunk!Yuuri. 
> 
> Please read the tags carefully, and message me if you need any clarification or want a summary. I want everyone to feel comfortable, so please reach out if you need to, OK? Thanks for reading! <3

A few weeks before his fourth birthday, Viktor’s mark appears. His nanny notices it as she gives him his evening bath. Viktor’s squirming away from the soapy cloth she’s using to scrub his skin pink when she gasps and catches his wrist. Her fingernails are painted a glossy burgundy, and they dig into his pale arm like little knives.

“Ouch! Galina, you’re pinching me!” Viktor whines. He just wants to be done with his bath so he can go curl up in bed. Maybe if he’s very good, his mama will even come to read him a story. 

“Hold still, Vitya,” Galina’s nails are still biting into him. She brings the cloth to his wrist and scrubs hard until the thin skin is burning. The orange-scented soap clings to Viktor’s body, and suddenly he feels slimy and sick. His stomach hurts.

“No!” he shrieks. “Stop! Please!” He yanks his arm away, cradling his wrist like it’s broken instead of just rubbed raw. He hunches over his own arm, suddenly protective of it for some reason. In the warm, golden light of the bathroom, he can see thin blue veins under his skin. But there is something new now. Something that glimmers, small and pure and silver, bright against his skin. 

“What is this?” he murmurs. Then he remembers how he once saw something shiny and silver tucked behind his mama’s ear when she pulled her hair into an elegant braid. He had touched it with gentle, probing fingers until she pulled away.

“Vitya, you are tickling me,” she had laughed. “That’s not for you to touch, my love. Someday you will have one of your own, and someone else will have one for you to touch all you like.”

“Really, mama? I will have one just like yours?” The little silver mark glimmered, and he curled his fingers together to stop himself from reaching out to touch it again. It looked like the pretty moths he sometimes saw beating against the dusty windows of his old nursery.

“Not quite like mine, Vitya. But it will be so lovely, and someday it will help you find your soulmate. It is something very precious, little one,” she bent over him to kiss his face, lips brushing over his cheeks and nose and chin until he giggled.

“Yes, mama.” Viktor already knew all about soulmates. They were the subject of all his favorite bedtime stories. When he fell asleep, he dreamed about the person he would love more than anyone else in the world, a person meant just for him.

Now, he looks at the shining mark on his wrist and feels his heart swell with happiness. His soulmate mark! It means that the other half of his soul has been born, that Viktor can find them and love them and take care of them forever.

When he finds them, he thinks, he’ll wrap them up in his favorite quilt and bring them to bed with him. They’ll read fairytales long past bedtime and drink hot chocolate and cuddle his Chernyy between the two of them. When Viktor wakes up in the night and feels scared of the dark, his soulmate will comfort him without being annoyed at his childish fear. He’ll never be lonely again.

Filled with elation, Viktor turns back to his nanny.

“Galina, look! I have my mark now.” He frowns down at the intricate medallion decorating his wrist, trying to remember what it’s called.

“It’s a— a snow flower, Galina. My soulmate is here.”

Viktor smiles proudly at his nanny, holding up his wrist although he knows she’s already seen his mark. But he wants her to tell him how pretty it is, how pretty his soulmate is going to be.

Instead, she purses her lips into a small, straight line. Her face looks hard and cold.

“Galina? Nanny?” Viktor murmurs plaintively. Why isn’t she happy for him? He’s been waiting his _whole_ life, four _long_ years, for this moment.

“Snowflake, not a snow-flower. Hold still, Viktor,” she says. She pushes his hands down into the lukewarm water, hiding his mark, and begins to pull through his long hair, tugging to untangle the strands. Her hands feel rough and brisk, her fingernails biting into his scalp. Maybe she’s hurrying, Viktor tells himself, so we can go tell mama about my mark.

She pulls him up to stand, hands gripping his thin arms. Without warning, he’s drenched in cold water as she rinses his hair.

“Cold! You’re free—freezing me!” Viktor chatters. His nanny has never done this to him before. Normally she wraps him in a fluffy white towel and lifts him out of the bath while she drains the soapy water and tests the temperature of the shower before washing the soap out of his hair. He’ll never forgive her for this!

“Mama!” he shrieks, but Galina’s already lifting him out of the tub. His hair is still dripping sudsy water down his back, but she hangs the towel around his shoulders anyhow.

“Dry yourself,” she orders, and Viktor does, hurt and sore and confused. He’s been good all day, and he can’t think of what he did to deserve this.

In a moment, he’s dressed in his second-favorite pair of pajamas, and Galina’s marching him down the hallway to his mother’s room. The floor is cold against his bare feet.

She stops at his mother’s door and knocks, and when Viktor’s mama opens the door Galina grasps his arm and holds the mark up to her.

“My Lady, I’m sorry to bother you. But I noticed _this_.” Even Viktor can hear the disgust in her voice, and he pulls away for her, going to his mama and clutching at her leg. He rests his head against her side, nuzzling into her to smell the sweet lilac scent of her perfume.

His mama bends down to inspect his arm carefully, and when she sees the mark, her face goes white.

“Oh God. God. A curse,” she moans. When she looks at Viktor, her eyes are glittery and very cold, like the ice crystals that he finds on his windows in the morning. She grasps him by the shoulders and shakes him, hard, like she’s trying to shake something out of him. He feels sick again, and his cheeks are burning with shame. Isn’t she supposed to be happy?

“Vitya,” she says, “my sweet, perfect Vitya. Listen to me.” Her voice is so stern, so serious, that Viktor’s breath freezes in his lungs and his chest aches. He can’t reply, so he just nods obediently to show that he is listening.

“This thing, this _mark_ , it is not a soulmate mark, Vitya. It is curse, a terrible curse. We will cure you, I promise. But until we do, you must not allow anyone to see it.” Her eyes pierce into his brain, her hands clench his shoulders too tightly. He can’t breathe.

Big boys like Viktor are not supposed to cry. He knows this, but he can’t help the tears that flood into his eyes, blurring his vision. His throat constricts, a lump of sadness settling there as heavily as a stone.

Before his mother can say another word, he’s breaking out of her grasp and running down the hallway as fast as he can, hot tears spilling freely down his cheek. A few drops fall against his lips, and he swallows them. The bitter saltiness is a fitting punishment. _Stupid. How could he be so stupid? He, Viktor Nikiforov, is not lucky enough to have a soulmate. He will always be alone. Lonely._

He escapes into his own quiet bedroom, where his stuffed dog Chernyy is nestled into his pillows. Viktor clambers onto the large bed and throws his arms around the plush poodle. He buries his face in Chernyy’s fluffy fur and sobs so that his body shakes with it. He wishes Chernyy was real. He wishes he had soft brown eyes instead of hard plastic ones. But the dog is just a toy, and he's all alone.

After the last of the tears have dried stickily on his face, he looks down at the little mark on his wrist once more. He is surprised that he doesn’t hate it.

“ _You gave me hope,”_ he whispers to it, and bends his head to kiss it very gently.

His mama doesn’t come to read to him that night. Galina forgets to bring his hot milk and turn on his nightlight. So Viktor falls asleep in the dark, cold and hungry and aching all over, with only Chernyy’s silent sympathy and the false mark on his wrist for comfort.

If only it was real, he thinks. If only his soulmate was out there, somewhere. Waiting for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Yuuri appears! Hiroko is a good mom. Viktor's mom is evil. 
> 
> (Reminder: I look at comments like Makkachin looks at those delicious (forbidden) buns. Yes, drooling is included. I'm not ashamed.)


	2. Chapter 2

When Yuuri is born, he is already marked.

In the hospital, the midwife guides him by his shoulders while Hiroko pants and gives one last, tired push. He doesn’t wail out at the sudden newness of the world like most babies, he just laughs, sweet and burbling like a baby bird. Hiroko, flushed and damp with sweat, smiles.

The nurses are efficient, wiping Yuuri clean before bundling him into a soft blanket and tiny knitted hat. The youngest nurse, fresh out of school and nearly in tears over the successful birth of another beautiful baby, notices his mark as she carries him back to Hiroko.

“Ah, Hiroko-san. He’s a lucky one,” she coos as she settles Yuuri against his mother’s chest to nurse. “Already loved.”

She means that Yuuri is already beloved, not just to his family, but to his soulmate. Its believed that those children born already marked grow up stronger, happier, and healthier. Somehow, the warmth of their soulmate’s love reaches them, protects them even before they meet.

Hiroko just strokes her son’s soft cheeks, brushes her fingertip down the slope of his nose. He’s so perfect, so lovely. He blinks his large, liquid brown eyes and reaches out a tiny hand to tangle in her hair. Carefully, she grasps his little fist and unfurls each curled finger, kissing his fingertips as she does.

There, delicately imprinted on the skin of Yuuri’s inner wrist, is his soulmate mark. It’s as beautiful as he is. It’s also silver.

Hiroko bites her lip, clutches her son closer to her body. She knows the mark means that Yuuri may have a more difficult life. Japan is progressive, and he won’t be hurt. But he will be judged and teased, ridiculed and shamed for something that should be sacred. He may grow to hate his soulmark instead of seeing it as a gift, a reminder of his other half.

_Already loved_ , she thinks, and forces herself to be calm.

Yuuri is so sweet and innocent, so warm and soft and fragile in her arms, that she cannot bear to think of any darkness in his future. He is healthy, joyful, beloved. For now, that is enough. Hiroko brings his wrist to her face and brushes her lips against the vulnerable skin, kissing the intricate silver snowflake there. As she does so, she imagines that she is kissing not just her son, but another little boy as well. _He is yours_ , she thinks _, so you are mine. I love you, my Yuuri. I love you, my Yuuri’s love._

Yuuri falls asleep nestled in warmth and love, the sound of his mother’s heartbeat echoing in his ears and the comfort of his soulmate bond pulsing gently through his mark.

 

* * *

 

Viktor wakes up to his mother shaking him and Chernyy whining as he’s pushed off of the bed.

“Vitya,” his mother coaxes, “time to get up!” Her voice is syrupy sweet, too saccharine to be trusted, but Viktor’s head is so clouded with sleep that he doesn’t wonder why. He stumbles out of bed and lets her dress him, tugging a scratchy sweater down over his head and yanking his hair into a wispy ponytail.

He falls asleep again once they’re in the car, cheek pressed to the tinted glass.

When he wakes up, he’s seated in a hard plastic chair in a room where everything is very white. It smells of chemicals and medicines. Next to him, Viktor’s mother is turning the pages of a glossy magazine too fast to be reading it. She’s frowning, her nails tapping against each page impatiently.

A tall man in a long white coat calls his mama’s name, and she takes Viktor’s hand to pull him along. The man leads them down a shiny white hallway and into a small white room, where Viktor is lifted onto a metal table covered in crinkly paper.

“Mama? Why are we here?” He doesn’t like this place. The smell of antiseptic burns in his nostrils.

“Hush, Vitya,” his mother tells him. “We’re going to fix your mark. You’ll be better soon.”

The doctor puts on gloves and lifts Viktor’s sleeve. The feeling of rubber on his skin makes him shudder, but almost as soon as the inspection has begun, it’s over.

The doctor looks up at Viktor’s mama, his face blank.

“It’s like I told you on the phone, Mrs. Nikiforov. There’s nothing we can do now.”

Viktor’s mama shrieks. It is a sound he has never heard from her before, so angry and sharp that he curls into himself in fear.

Voice dripping with venom, she spits out, “You must fix him now. It is imperative. I don’t think I have to remind you that I am willing to pay _anything_ to have this issue taken care of. If you don’t do it, I will take him somewhere else. I’ll take my money, too.”

The doctor is unbothered. “To do the surgery now would kill him, Mrs. Nikiforov. Your son would die.”

Viktor is so confused. Is he sick? Is he dying? What sort of surgery are they talking about? He imagines shining knives and strange, wickedly sharp tools slicing into his body, and his heart clenches in fear.

His mama’s face freezes into an icy mask. Her hands, curled like white doves at her side, shake with a tremor so small that only Viktor notices it.

“How soon will he be strong enough to survive the surgery?”

“At age eleven, maybe. Twelve would be better.”

“Eleven. It will be done then, or I’ll end your career. Do you hear me?”

The doctor nods, and leaves the room. Viktor’s mama hides her face in her hand for a moment. When she takes it away, her eyes glide over Viktor’s face like she can’t quite see him.

“Viktor,” she says flatly. “You _will_ be fixed. But until then, you must continue to hide your mark. It is your greatest duty, my son. If you fail, you will destroy our family.”

Viktor looks up at her hard face and smells the bitter antiseptic and feels the cold metal underneath him. Its chill settles into his heart.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

He understands perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Katsuki family fluff!
> 
> (Reminder: Comments make me feel like Yurio being reunited with his Grandpa!)


	3. Chapter 3

Yuuri knows that his mark is weird. He’s known it for so long that he can’t remember exactly when he realized it.

Boys are meant to have golden colored marks. Only girls have silver marks. 

Yuuri has accepted that he’s strange and broken, but his mom refuses to call his mark anything other than beautiful. She comforts him by telling him that his unique mark means he’s extra special, that his soulmate loves him extra, loves him with all his heart, to make up for the people in the world who hate him just because of his mark.

“His?” Yuuri asks her, the first time she tells him what his mark means. Isn’t his soulmate supposed to be a girl?

“Yes, Yuu-kun. Your soulmate is a boy. But you shouldn’t worry about it. He will love you so much, and you will love him. Your soulmate was made just for you, so you’ll fit together no matter what, Ok?”

“Ok mom,” Yuuri replies, satisfied with her answer. He’s so eager to meet his soulmate, to show him how much he already loves him.

“Patience, little brother,” teases Mari. Yuuri sticks his tongue out at her and thinks that his soulmate is too important, too vital, to wait for.

 

* * *

 

 Once he starts school, Yuuri finds it more difficult to be comforted by his mother’s words. No matter how special his soulmark is, it doesn’t keep his classmates from taunting him constantly. They’re too clever to really hurt him, but their supply of cruel words seems unending. Worse, Yuuri’s teachers ignore how the other students jeer and pointed at him like he’s an animal trapped in some horrible exhibit.

If Yuuri were an animal, he thinks he’d like to be a tiny mouse or a shy turtle. Maybe he could dig a burrow deep into the ground, or pull his head into his shell and never come out.

Yuuri knows he is weak and small for his age. His eyes are too large and he cries too much. His bangs hang over his forehead in messy tufts and he can’t help blushing bright red whenever he’s called on in class. His mom calls him cute, but Yuuri knows he looks dumb and vulnerable. Sometimes, he thinks he almost deserves his classmate’s insults.

Maybe Yuuri should be grateful for the constant reminder that his soulmate will never want him. His beautiful soulmate doesn’t deserve to be bound to a fat, ugly piggy like Yuuri, someone who can barely talk in front of other children without tripping over his words and spilling babyish tears down his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

“Yuu-ri’s a girl! A silly little girl!”

“That’s why he’s so small! Look at his fat cheeks. Piggy, ugly piggy. Nobody will ever want you.”

“ _My_ daddy says Yuuri is something even _worse_ than a girl! He’s a—a wrong-mark!” With that last taunt, the children circled around Yuuri gasp and titter. A few of the larger boys throw pebbles at him. They’re not big enough to really hurt, but they still sting and bruise. It’s their words that are the worst, though, worse than all the stones. Their words are what make him feel so ashamed, so small and worthless.

Today is his birthday. He’s just turned seven, but instead of celebrating, he’s crouched in one corner of the playground, hoping his tormenters will grow bored and leave him alone soon.

One of the pebbles bounces towards his face, smacking against his glasses and knocking them askew. The boy who threw it laughs.

“Ah, look! The piggy’s blind now, too. What a helpless little worm he is.”

The two girls behind the boy giggle sharply, the sound cutting into Yuuri’s head. He can’t help himself. Tears, hot and salty, roll in fat drops down his face. He just wants to be left alone. Why can’t they leave him alone?

“Please,” he whimpers, “please, please. Just go.”

The children cackle again, loud and rough and boisterous. Yuuri bows his head and pulls his knees in closer to his body, trying to appear small and uninteresting.

Maybe his strategy works, or maybe it’s some sort of birthday miracle, but with a few final stones thrown his way, the children turn and walk away.

Yuuri sighs a long, shuddering sigh and rests his forehead against his knees, glad for a moment of peace. From his mark comes a pulse of warmth and comfort. It flows up his arm to his shoulder, twines around his neck and spills down his spine. His muscles relax, and even his bones feel better, stronger. He feels, for a moment, like he’s not alone.

A few more tears, happy ones this time, prick at his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. In the dark space created by his own body, Yuuri smiles a small, secret smile. Maybe his mom is right about his soulmate. Maybe somewhere, there is someone who loves Yuuri exactly as he is.

 

* * *

 

 At home, Yuuri’s mom takes one look at his tired face and the tiny bruises littering his arms and legs and pulls him into a long, tight hug. She doesn’t ask him if he’s had a good day.

Instead, she leads him to the table where his father and Mari are waiting to wish him a happy birthday. At each place is a large, steaming bowl of his favorite dish.

“Katsudon!” Yuuri smiles, and turns to give his mom another hug. The hot, savory smell of the food unwinds something in his stomach, something that had been all knotted up at school.

After dinner, when Yuuri’s stomach is full and he’s almost forgotten about his school day, Hiroko brings out his presents. There are two large bags, one blue and one mint green, each filled with pretty tufts of tissue paper.

Mari tells him to open the blue one first. Hidden under the tissue paper is a pink box, and inside it is a pair of small, soft white shoes.

“Ah? What are these?” Yuuri wonders softly. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he wonders why his family chose this gift for him. The shoes are so soft and delicate that he can’t imagine wearing them outside.

Mari just laughs at him. “Yuuri, they’re dancing slippers. You’re going to take lessons! It will be so much fun!”

Yuuri isn’t convinced that it will be fun. His classmates already tease him for being too girly. What will they say when they learn that he’s taking dance lessons, too? Still, he bows slightly and thanks his family, genuinely grateful for their gift. He strokes the soft white ribbons on the new dancing shoes and feels almost excited to try them on.

His father passes him the other bag. In this one is another pair of shoes, but these are familiar to him.

“Ice skates!” he calls out, reaching in to pull them out by the laces.

Often, his mom asks Mari to take him to the nearby rink for a treat. Long after Mari tires to skating and goes to wait in the bleachers with a mug of hot tea in her hand, Yuuri glides and twirls on the ice. He loves everything about the rink, from the upbeat music they play there to the chilly air that turns his nose and ears pink.

He goes to the rink nearly every week, but Yuuri’s never had his own pair of skates before. Mari rents the smallest size for him, but the battered skates at Hasetsu’s Ice Castle always feel a little too loose.

Yuuri admires the shiny blades on his new ice skates before looking up at his parents.

“Mom! Dad! _Doumo arigatou_! This is the best gift, ever. I’m going to be the greatest skater in Hasetsu! No, in _Japan!_ ” He’s practically incoherent, babbling with excitement, but his parents can see just how happy he is from his sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Ah, Yuuri. I’m so glad you’re happy with them,” says Hiroko. “We’ve signed you up for skating lessons, too. Figure skating, Yuu-chan!”

“Your mom and I thought it would be good for you to stay busy, right?” his dad adds.

Yuuri nods. None of his classmates come to Ice Castle. On the ice, he can forget about their cruel voices and be free. When he skates fast enough, their insults stop echoing around his head, and his mind is filled with white noise, with the almost silent sound of snowflakes falling.

“ _Arigatou_ ,” he thanks them again. He feels light with happiness, pleased with his gifts, but even more pleased to be reminded of how much his family loves him, how well they know him.

“Don’t thank us too much,” Mari teases him.

Hiroko nods, “We just want you to be happy, Yuu-kun. Ok?”

“Oh—Ok, mom. I’m happy.”

He is.

 

* * *

 

 After his bath, Yuuri falls asleep with his skates tucked under his pillow. Mari would tease him if she knew, and they feel a little lumpy even through the pillow, but he can’t bear to pack them away.

That night, he dreams of skating, flying on ice. In his dream, someone skates with him. A boy with silk-smooth, silver hair and ice-blue eyes follows his every step, gliding behind him and supporting him as he spins and leaps. His angel. His soulmate.

In the arms of his soulmate, flying on ice, Yuuri feels invincible.

The boy lifts him high above his head, and Yuuri is weightless, staring down into his soulmate’s blue, blue eyes. _Strange,_ he thinks, _I never knew blue eyes could be so warm._

The boy looks up at him and laughs. His eyes crinkle and he smiles at Yuuri, open-mouthed, as if he’s in awe of him. His hands hold Yuuri so gently, warmth flooding through his fingers to spill into him, lighting the smaller boy up until he glows.

“You’re my soulmate?” asks Yuuri. His voice nearly breaks, but for once in his life, he’s not ashamed of his weakness. He’s lost in this boy’s warm eyes, held up by his warm hands, surrounded by his light. With him, Yuuri feels both stripped bare and protected, utterly exposed but safe, cradled in his love.

The boy just stares at him, his face glowing with adoration. “My Yuuri,” he whispers, and pulls Yuuri down, crushing him against his chest. Yuuri tucks his head against his soulmate’s shoulder and breathes him in, spilling a few tears on his soft shirt. The other boy just holds him tighter and rubs his hands gently down Yuuri’s spine, stroking until the black-haired boy sniffs and looks up at him with wet brown eyes and flushed cheeks.

“You’re really mine?” he begs. The taller boy presses a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head. His silver hair falls around them like silk curtains, creating a tiny world where only they exist.

"Yuuri, I’m yours.” And then he laughs, sweet and high, and pulls Yuuri to skate alongside him, faster and faster until the world around them is just a dizzy blur.

Time, in a dream, is a strange thing. While Yuuri is sleeping, dream-Yuuri spends a small eternity dancing with his soulmate.

The other boy teases him, skating away from him, looping around him, but always coming back to clasp his hands tight and press little kisses against his nose.

“My Yuuri,” he repeats. “I’ll stay by your side, always. Once I find you, I’ll never let you go.”

In bed, Yuuri whimpers as the first bright rays of morning sunshine slip through his bedroom window and pry at his eyelids. With a sigh, he rolls over, trying to evade the necessity of waking for as long as possible.

In his dream, Yuuri reaches up to touch his soulmate’s face, grasping onto a lock of his shining hair.

“I’m right here!” he insists. “Stay with me now. You said you’re mine, so prove it! Stay with me!”

His soulmate’s mouth curves into a small frown and he blinks, slowly. His frosty eyelashes cast little shadows onto his pale cheeks.

“I’m sorry, my Yuuri. So sorry.”

Yuuri is crying, and he doesn’t know why. The emotions swirling through him are too vast to name.

“Stay with me!” he begs, but then his hands are tugged out of his soulmate’s grasp. His whole body is pulled away from the other boy.

“No! Stay!” he pleads, but a sheet of snow whirls through the rink, separating him from his soulmate. He’s blinded by pure white flakes, tiny ice crystals cutting into his face and hands.

 _I don’t even know his name_ , Yuuri thinks. And then he wakes up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Yuuri skates, Viktor skates, everyone is happy (not). 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Reminder: Comments make me feel like Minami watching Yuuri skate!)


	4. Chapter 4

Hiding his mark is not easy. Viktor has always been a charming, friendly child, and his natural inclination is to be open with those around him. Before turning four, he hugs anyone who will let him, gives sticky toddler kisses freely, and begs for attention shamelessly.

After his mark appears, everything changes. His mother tells him that he won’t be going to school with his friends. Instead, a strict tutor with a sharp, unsmiling face comes to teach him mathematics and grammar each day.

At first, the tutor gives Viktor his lessons at the dining room table. Her voice drones on, but at least Viktor can stare out the large windows to watch the clouds drift by. If he tries hard enough, he can convince himself that the sky he’s looking at hangs not above his family’s pristine, snow-shrouded gardens in Russia, but above a beach, somewhere where the air is warm and salty smelling. In his best daydreams, he can feel soft sand under his feet and hear the bittersweet cries of gulls flying high above him.

When his tutor realizes that he’s daydreaming instead of memorizing conjugations, she slaps his hands until they’re red and moves their lessons to a dim, windowless room in the attic. Viktor stops daydreaming about faraway beaches, and starts daydreaming about escaping his own home.

He doesn’t know quite where he’d go. Maybe he would just run outside, lie down in the snow, and dream about warmth and sand and the sound of waves before turning blue with cold. The frostbite would be worth it, Viktor thinks, to hear the seagulls just one more time.

* * *

 Viktor’s life shrinks. His mother no longer allows him to invite friends home to play. His older sister gets married and moves far away. On his birthday, she sends Viktor books that are too heavy for him to open, too dull for him to read. His father is always busy, busy, busy with work. When he looks at Viktor, his face goes blank, as if Viktor is a stranger, as if he’s surprised to find this little boy living in his house.

Viktor’s mother is worse. She looks at him like she _used_ to know him, like he’s betrayed her by changing. Her eyes say, _you used to be_ my _Vitya_ , _but now I don’t know what you are._

Viktor wants to tell her he hasn’t changed. He’s still hers. Her Vitya. But at four, he doesn’t have the right words. At five, his voice is too small. At six, he’s learned that silence protects him. At seven, he’s given up on his mother ever loving him again.

At seven, Viktor decides that if he is going to be alone, he not just going to be lonely. He is going to be the _very best_ at being lonely.

He folds himself inward, lets himself become lost in his own head. He stops talking, stops eating, stops moving. Viktor is listless, lifeless. He forgets how to dream. If he could, he would fall into the black nothingness of sleep forever.

His mother notices, eventually. She fires the tutor. She hires nurses to feed him soft foods, bathe him, stretch his frail limbs, take his temperature, and push too many pills down his throat. She pays the best doctors in Russia to prod at his belly, shine lights in his eyes, and scribble prescriptions for more pills. Each one says the same thing before leaving.

“Your son, Mrs. Nikiforov, is dying of something like a broken heart.”

“You see, he doesn’t _want_ to live anymore. Living requires willpower.”

“A smile, I’d think, would do him more good than a pill. Though I _do_ have some very impressive vitamins that might do the trick.”

Viktor eats the vitamins. He does not get better. The next doctor says something different.

“He’s going to die. If nothing changes, he’s going to die. ”

In his bed, body trapped under the stifling press of too many heavy quilts, Viktor rubs his fingers over the old mark on his wrist. His lips curve upwards, and then he closes his eyes and sleeps.

* * *

The morning after the last doctor leaves, Viktor wakes up to his mother leaning over him and a pile of clothing resting on the pillow next to his head.

“Here,” she says, “put these on. And make sure that _thing_ —make sure that mark is covered.”

The clothing is a pair of black athletic pants, warm socks, a soft grey undershirt, and a long-sleeved top made of thin, slippery material. The ends of the sleeves are so long they fall down over Viktor’s hands. There are holes in each one, to slip his thumbs into.

After he puts the clothing on, his mother places a hand on his shoulder and pushes, rotating him to inspect his body. Satisfied, she nods.

“Remember—don’t show your mark, Viktor.” She hands him a heavy blue bag. “There’s a car for you in the front.”

“Where am I going?” Viktor wonders, his voice thin and rusty after so much silence.

“You’re going to make your family proud, Vitya,” his mother says. Her voice is almost soft. It’s the first time in a long, long time that she’s called him by his old name.

Viktor just nods, tugs his sneakers onto his feet, and walks out of his room.

In the driveway, the car is waiting for him, just like his mother promised. The driver opens the back door for him, but Viktor hoists his bag in himself. He scrambles in after it and fumbles with the seatbelt until it clicks into place.

A short drive later, they’re at a large, nondescript building. Viktor looks at it warily from behind tinted glass.

He turns to the driver, suddenly nervous.

“Will you go with me? I don’t even know what that building is, or what I’m supposed to do inside it.” He wishes his voice didn’t waver so much.

“You’re a big boy,” says the driver, and helps him out of the car.

The building, Viktor learns, is an ice rink. It’s large and echoey and cold. At one end of the rink is a crowd of brightly dressed children wobbling in shaky circles around a short, pretty woman with wispy braids crowning her head. Their laughing voices sound too loud and bright to Viktor, who has spend so much time alone in his head.

He wonders if he’s supposed to join the group of laughing children. He doesn’t think he would fit in very well, but he finds the changing area and sits to open the athletic bag his mother had given him anyway. Inside are skates, a jacket, and warm gloves.

His feet slip into the skates smoothly. The rigid material feels strangely stiff against his ankles, but he laces them up as well as he can, tying the long laces in a messy knot. Viktor pulls on the gloves and jacket, and realizes why he’s suddenly been let out of the house for the first time in years. The combination of long-sleeved shirt, gloves, and bulky jacket is enough to reassure even his mother that his mark is hidden.

Unsteadily, Viktor makes his way back to the rink and presses his face against the clear plastic barriers surrounding the low walls. The children are playing tag now, many of them slipping and falling when they try to go too fast.

A soft voice jerks Viktor away from the scene.

“Hello? Are you lost? Where’s your mother, sweetheart?”

Viktor looks up to meet the warm amber eyes of the woman he saw earlier. “I’m Viktor,” he says.

“Last name?”

“Nikiforov.”

“Hmm, let me see—“ she pulls a notebook out of her coat pocket and runs her finger down a list of names. “Niki—Nikiforov—you’re not with me. Oh! You’ve got private lessons.”

She looks back down at him. “You look pretty young for that, hmm.”

Viktor bites his lip. “I’m seven. And a half!”

She smiles at him, nearly laughing. “Hey, hey. Don’t get offended. Your coach will be here any minute, O.K.? You can wait here for him. He’s nice, you’ll like him. He has red hair, and you can tease him about it as long as you don’t let him know I told you to, all right?”

The woman tells Viktor her name is Katrina, and buys him a syrup-sweet hot chocolate before heading back to her own class. He watches how smoothly she moves on the ice, like she’s dancing, or flying. She looks completely free. _That_ thinks Viktor, _I want to do that._

* * *

 Viktor’s coach is named Ivan. He does have red hair, but Viktor doesn’t tease him about it. He’d rather focus on skating.

The first day, Ivan teaches him how to fall.

“Victor, if you want to learn to jump, you have to learn how to fall first. Fall soft, yes? Don’t be mad at the ice.”

Viktor pushes forwards, hard, and feels his skate catch in the ice. His right leg wobbles, and he falls, knees knocking into the ice and elbows scraped raw with the friction.

“Good. That was good. Remember, don’t be mad at the ice. Trust it, yes? If you trust the ice, and trust yourself, you’ll be jumping soon.”

Viktor nods, and pushes himself into a standing position. He falls again and again, but again and again, he gets back up. _Trust the ice, trust yourself_ , he repeats in his head. Each fall is a little softer. Each time he gets back up a little quicker.

By the end of his class, he can fall and recover in one smooth movement. The ice beneath him blades feels reassuring instead of treacherous. His knees ache, his feet are sore, and his nose is running, but he’s happy. He feels present, strong, alive.

Ivan helps him unlace his skates and pats his shoulder.

“Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to skate forwards and backwards, and soon we’ll be able to try some spins. You’re a natural, Viktor. It’s like you were born to skate.”

Viktor smiles, quick and brilliant. _I was_ , he wants to say.

* * *

 At the ice rink, Viktor learns how to make skating look effortless. He learns how to dance on ice. How to fall, and twirl, and spin, and get back up. He learns how to fly.

He’s still alone, but on ice he feels less lonely. Somehow, the sharp sound of his blades cutting into ice reminds him of the seagull cries he used to imagine. The sound tugs at something within him, something aching and sweet and deep-rooted. On his wrist, the mark twinges.

Skating becomes Viktor’s life. He doesn’t have anything else to devote his time to. When he’s not skating, he’s stretching in his bedroom, dancing in the hallway, watching videos of the greatest figure skaters and imagining himself performing their routines.

By eight, Viktor can attempt some simple jumps and most spins. His step sequences are precise and lovely, sharp and elegant at once. He learns how to dance to the music, molding his body and facial expression to the notes.

He competes in some local competitions, and wins. He learns that no gold medal can make his mother proud of him, can make her love him again. Viktor decides to skate for himself, and no one else. He puts more energy into skating, working until his feet are bruised and bleeding and even Ivan tells him to take a break.

By nine, he has fans. Most of them are Russian, but others are from around the world. When he competes, the rink is filled with banners spelling out his name. People throw roses, plush animals, flags. Viktor bows, remembers how to be charming but doesn’t bother to relearn kindness.

He knows that this kind of love—squealing, nosebleed, fangirl love—is not quite real. His fans love his long silver hair, his dramatic routines, his charming smiles, the way he bows like a prince when they wave at him. They don’t love the Viktor who wants to run away to a beach where the sand is always warm and the waves sound like a lullaby.

Still, their love is addicting. It buzzes on his skin, heady and sweet and short-lived as victory. Viktor wins gold too easily for it to matter anymore, and each competition becomes an individual challenge. He’s always running, chasing, trying to be more perfect, more surprising, more awe-inspiring than himself. _Love me_ , he begs. _Love me,_ he dances.

* * *

 At ten, Ivan tells Viktor he’s taught him everything he can.

“I know,” says Viktor. He wants to cry.

At ten, he leaves to train full time at the school in St. Petersburg. He gets a new coach. Yakov is gruff and temperamental, but Viktor knows how to charm even him. He figures out how to mix hard work with playful disobedience, tugging on Yakov’s strings until the man turns red in the face and begs him to just do what he’s told.

In St. Petersburg, Viktor trains with other skaters for the first time in his life. There’s Georgi, the serious boy who’s always pining after some girl he can’t have. There’s feisty Mila, who wears her red hair in pigtails and threatens to punch Viktor when he teases her too much. The older skaters ignore the three of them until Yakov starts using Viktor as an example.

“See? Do you see how Vitya does it? Why can’t you do it like that? If you would work half as hard as him you might be half as good! Now skate, skate like you mean it!”

After that, the older skaters hate Viktor. Mila promises to punch them if they touch him. Georgi tells him he should get a girlfriend. Viktor thinks they’re his friends now.

At ten, Viktor is starting to compete with skaters from every part of Europe. His name is known around the world. He gets more fans, more flowers, more medals. His mother is still not proud of him. He tells himself he doesn’t care.

* * *

 A few weeks before his eleventh birthday, Viktor dreams for the first time in years. He’s in a familiar setting—an ice rink, empty and cold and lit by only a few lights. But in his arms, is a smaller boy with tousled black hair. The boy’s back is pressed against Viktor, his arms extended like he’s flying. Viktor’s hands grip his waist, and he lifts him as if he’s lighter than air.

He spins him midair, and the boy looks down at him with shining brown eyes. Viktor feels like he’s melting. He’s never seen this boy before, but he knows him. He knows the sweet, fragile tenderness in his eyes. He knows the little smile curling over those lips. He knows the small, cool hand that comes to stroke over his cheek. All he can think as he dances with the boy is, _you belong with me._

“You’re my soulmate?” the dark-haired boy asks, trembling and hopeful. Viktor looks at him, and aches, and wishes. The false mark on his wrist burns. The boy blinks at him, eyes glistening and wide, all emotions bared to Viktor without hesitation. Viktor can’t lie to him—and yet. And yet, he knows that this boy is his, that they belong to one another. Somehow, he finds the strength to answer him.

“My Yuuri.” The name falls from his mouth as if he’s always known it. It tastes like honey on his tongue.

He pulls the boy into him, holding him so tightly that he can feel his heart pounding against his chest. The boy shudders, and hot wetness dampens Viktor’s shirt. He clutches him impossibly tighter and rests his chin on the boy’s head, feeling the silky tickle of hair brushing his cheek. He strokes his hands from Yuuri’s exposed neck to the base of his spine, trying to soothe him with the slow, rhythmic motions.

The boy lifts his head and stares up at Viktor. “You’re really mine?”

Viktor is so far past the point of acting, the point of lying. He’s dreaming, he tells himself. What harm is there in pretending, if it’s only in a dream?

“My Yuuri, I’m yours.” Guilt churns his stomach, but the lie settles sweetly in his heart. He glows with it. _I’m yours._ Suddenly he’s laughing. This is just a dream. He gets to have this. This one happy, false, impossible thing.

He breaks away from the boy, skates loops around him. Dips, twirls, comes back when he misses the warmth of his hands and eyes.

“My Yuuri,” he repeats, just to taste the name again. “I’ll stay by your side, always. Once I find you, I’ll never let you go.”

The boy winces, reaches up to tug on his hair. The light in the rink brightens, grows sharper and harsher.

“I’m right here!” Yuuri begs him. “Stay with me now! You said you’re mine, so prove it! Stay with me.”

The pleading tone in his voice, the childish way he grasps at Viktor’s hair, the dampness spilling down his flushed cheeks—these are the things that make Viktor realize he would cut out his heart for this boy.

_It’s just a dream. Impossible._

“I’m sorry, my Yuuri. So sorry.”

Yuuri is crying. Viktor brushes his tears away with his fingertips.

“Stay with me!” he begs.

_You’re not real. Not mine. I wish—_

Viktor lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting so late, I was traveling all day. But it's a slightly longer chapter to make up for that! :)
> 
> Anyhow, thank you all so much for reading and commenting. I'm so so happy that people are enjoying this angsty mess. 
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuko! More angst. But dogs! (Do dogs make up for angst?)
> 
> (Reminder: Comments make me smile like Yuuko's triplets when they post a new video for the skating otaku!)


	5. Chapter 5

Life, Yuuri thinks, is better after his seventh birthday. School is still full of bullies and neglectful teachers, but no matter how cruel his classmates are, he knows that in the afternoon he can escape to the ice rink or the dance studio.

Dancing is surprisingly fun. Yuuri likes the feeling of slipping on the delicate ballet slippers and lining up at the bar with the other boys and girls in Minako’s class. They start with the basics. First position, feet outturned, and hands curled inwards to form circles with their arms. Second position, arms and legs open wide. Third. Feet crossed, one arm stretched out. Sometimes, when Minako calls out the order of the positions, she makes a mistake and swears under her breath. Yuuri tries not to laugh, but he always fails. Minako pretends to glare at him and then begs her students not to tell their parents about her swearing habit. They all nod obediently, glad to keep her little secret.

Yuuri likes fifth position best of all. He reaches his arms up, trying to make himself as tall as possible. He’s still the shortest in the class, but he doesn’t mind too much. Minako calls him her little dancer, and tells him that he has the heart of a ballerina. In her mirror-walled studio, Yuuri feels like his skin fits him right for the first time in his life.

“Lovely, Yuuri,” says Minako after he performs an almost wobble-free arabesque. Yuuri smiles. He’s still working on being graceful, but when he dances, Yuuri feels beautiful.

Like dancing makes Yuuri feel comfortable in his own skin, skating makes him trust his own feet. Yuuri has always been clumsy, but on the ice he’s strangely confident. Like any beginner, he falls down too many times to count. But he never gets too scared to try again.

“What a brave little boy,” his coach praises him. Yuuri doesn’t think that he’s brave. It’s just that he loves the ice, loves the feeling of flying on his skates, loves it all so much that the sharp pain of a fall is worth it.

Yuuri doesn’t tell his coach, but skating also makes him feel closer to his soulmate. Since Yuuri’s birthday, he’s dreamed of the silver-haired boy almost every night. In his dreams, the boy teaches Yuuri to perform spectacular jumps and spins, feats he could never dream of attempting at Hasetsu’s Ice Castle.

During his lessons, Yuuri sometimes feels like his soulmate is skating alongside him, guiding him and helping him to mirror his coach’s moves. On these rare occasions, Yuuri skates better than ever. His steps are precise and elegant, his movements perfectly in time with the music his coach is teaching him to dance to. With the comfort of his soulmate’s presence, Yuuri feels like he could skate forever. No matter how long he stays in the chilly rink, he feels warm and glowy, like someone’s built a bonfire inside his belly and the sparks are floating up to bounce against his heart and fill his lungs with light.

At seven years old, Yuuri feels like he knows who he is. He’s a promising dancer and a talented skater. He belongs to someone, is loved by the most beautiful soulmate in the whole world. He’s not just Yuuri any longer. He’s _my little dancer, brave little boy, my Yuuri._

For the first time in his life, Yuuri is filled up with purpose.

* * *

_Feet wide. Arms out. Now pull in. Use the momentum to spin. Spin, Yuuri!_

Yuuri tries to spin for the tenth time, replaying his coach’s instructions in his head. He’s almost made a complete rotation when he loses his balance and tumbles backwards, landing on the cold ice. His limbs are spread out like a helpless starfish, but it wasn’t a hard fall. He’s not hurt, really, just disappointed in his own inability to do a simple spin. Yuuko bends over him, her eyes wide with concern.

“Yuu-kun,” she cries, “are you O.K.?” Her expression is so worried that Yuuri smiles, and then laughs, staring up at the lights above him. Yuuko glares at him, huffs in frustration, and then giggles, too.

“Ah, you should get punished for making me worry!” she teases, pouncing on top of Yuuri and tickling his sides until he squirms.

“No! You can’t escape my wrath, little Yuuri!” He grins and rolls to the side, his puffy jacket allowing him to slide easily across the ice. Yuuko growls playfully and rolls after him, reaching out to pinch his cheeks until he begs her to stop.

“Ok! Yuuko, please! You won now! Please don’t tease me anymore!”

Yuuko mutters something about respecting one’s elders, but at least she decides to leave his cheeks alone.

Gracefully, she stands back up, so comfortable on her skates that Yuuri feels a hot flash of jealousy.

“C’mon Yuuri, race me!” she begs. Still enjoying his spot on the cool ice, Yuuri groans. It’s been weeks since he started his skating lessons and met Yuuko, and they race almost every day. He’s never beaten her.

She tugs on her ponytail impatiently, and Yuuri manages to pull himself into a standing position. He’s much clumsier than Yuuko.

They skate to the far end of the rink, and count to three together before they push off. When Yuuri and Yuuko race, they start at one end of the rink, skate in a straight line to the other end, curve around the outer edge of the rink, and end up where they started. It’s a hard race because they have to skate fast and make a neat turn, too. Yuuri is pretty sure Yuuko created it just to torture him.

As soon as Yuuko shouts “go!” Yuuri’s off, blades cutting into the ice sharply. They’re neck and neck as they skate forwards, Yuuri’s lungs already burning with the strain of matching Yuuko’s pace.

 _I’m not strong enough_ , he thinks. _She’s older. I’m younger, and less experienced. I’ll never win!_

Yuuri falls a pace behind Yuuko, and he’s about to give up and accept defeat once more. He pushes off again, halfheartedly, and everything in his mind goes quiet.

His vision blurs until his surroundings look like a watercolor painting. Everything is soft and muted. Little flecks of silver glimmer in the air, like snowflakes made of something more precious than ice.

The silhouette of a boy, half-translucent and glowing with a silver light, appears ahead of Yuuri. Silver hair, jewel-blue eyes, open-mouthed, laughing smile—Yuuri recognizes this boy, the boy from his dreams. His soulmate.

His soulmate skates backwards smoothly, smiling at Yuuri. His blue eyes sparkle, calling to out to him. He stretches one hand out, elegant, like he’s reaching for a prince.

 _Follow me, my Yuuri!_ The voice echoes in Yuuri’s head, sweet and bright as silver bells.

His lungs don’t feel so weak, suddenly. He sees that Yuuko is still ahead of him, but not by quite so much. Yuuri bites his lip and clenches his fists in determination. He skates faster, gliding further with each motion.

He wants to reach his soulmate. The silver-haired boy smiles at him proudly. _Faster, Yuuri! You can do it. I believe in you._

Yuuri flushes, his body flooding with warmth. He skates harder. When he looks in front of him, he can only see his soulmate. He’s overtaken Yuuko, and the end of the rink is only a few feet ahead.

In an instant, the other boy turns, loops around to skate behind Yuuri, and whispers in his ear. _I’ll make the turn with you, my Yuuri. Do you trust me?_

Yuuri nods his head. His soulmate’s touch on his hip and shoulder is almost imperceptible. It feels like a warm spring breeze, or a butterfly kiss. The turn comes, and his soulmate guides Yuuri, twisting them around so neatly and quickly that Yuuri almost feels dizzy. Only the warmth of his soulmate’s presence against his back keeps him steady.

 _Now skate, Yuuri!_ He does, pushing off hard. Behind him, he hears Yuuko’s skates as she makes the turn. His soulmate strokes from Yuuri’s shoulder down his arm, brushing his fingertips lightly across his wrist. The small sliver of exposed skin between Yuuri’s jacket and glove feels electrified.

His soulmate tangles his hand with Yuuri’s. _You’re going to win, my Yuuri. Make me proud._

The spot where the race began is only a foot ahead. Yuuri can taste victory. He closes his eyes, trusts his soulmate to guide him, and pushes off one final time.

When he opens his eyes, he’s kneeling at the end of the rink, panting hard. Yuuko skates towards him, smiling wide.

“Yuu-kun, you beat me! I’m so proud!” Yuuri’s chest swells with joy until her words sink in. _Make me proud._ He looks around, trying to find his soulmate. But aside from Yuuko, the rink is empty. Yuuri deflates, his victory turning bittersweet.

If Yuuko notices his sudden mood change, she doesn’t say anything. She just ruffles his hair and pulls him back to his feet.

“Don’t think you’ve beaten me for good, Yuuri! Tomorrow I’ll be back to winning!”

Yuuri shakes his head and scrunches his nose at her.

“Of course you will, Yuuko-chan!”

“Hmm, Yuuri. I think you’re getting a _little_ too confident. How about we go back to practicing spins?”

Yuuri whimpers dramatically, and Yuuko laughs.

They practice spins for an hour, until Yuuri’s body is aching and his fingertips are sore from the cold. Yuuri skates until he’s so tired that he almost forgets about his soulmate. Almost.

* * *

When Viktor wakes up, it takes him longer than a few minutes to remember where he is. The light in this room is all wrong. The air is just a bit too chilly. It smells like perfume, wood polish and, underneath, dust. The bed he’s in is too large and too soft, with silky white sheets instead of his plain red ones from training school. There’s no bunk bed full of snoring Georgi above him.

Ah, Viktor realizes. He’s home. The thought makes him wish he hadn’t woken up.

Viktor has been at home for a week already, and he misses the training school so much that it’s a physical ache in his chest. He misses Georgi and his never-ending girl drama. He misses Mila and the way she teases Georgi. He even misses Yakov, his grumpy critiques and rare, precious compliments.

Mila had invited Viktor to spend the winter holiday with her, but Viktor’s mother had insisted that he come home.

“Viktor,” she had pouted, “we hardly see you these days. Are you too proud for your family, now? And anyhow, it’s almost your birthday. We’ll celebrate together.”

Ashamed, Viktor had agreed to come home. “No, mother. Of course I’m not too proud for my family.”

After the training school in St. Petersburg, the house feels too quiet and still, like a place meant for ghosts instead of people. Viktor’s father is away on a business trip, and his sister has apparently made some weak excuse about the costs and stresses of travel to avoid coming home. The only remaining inhabitants of the house are Viktor and his mother and too many solemn servants staring at him silently or worse, calling him “Young Sir,” and other cold, respectful names.

He looks up at the perfectly smooth, white-painted ceiling above him and imagines that it’s ice. He was having such a pleasant dream before he woke up—about skating with a black-haired boy, staring into his big brown eyes.

They’d been skating, but not the way he skates when Yakov is coaching him. When Yakov watches, Viktor forces himself to skate perfectly. He imagines that he’s made of ice, ethereal and fierce at once. Each movement is impossibly beautiful, impossibly difficult—on ice, Viktor is inhuman, untouchable. Frozen.

He’s dreamed about this boy, about skating with him, over and over in the past month. In the dreams, the boy calls him his soulmate. His rosy cheeks, the raven tangle of his hair, the way he curls against Viktor’s chest, asking wordlessly for protection—he’s just a dream, but to Viktor, he feels real. _My Yuuri._

Viktor feels an odd mixture of guilt and giddiness when he thinks of the dreams. Guilt, because he’s lying to the boy. Viktor doesn’t have a soulmate and he never will. He’s destined to be alone, kept company by the old false promise of a mark on his wrist. He tries not to look at the mark. Seeing it, delicate and shining and _a lie, a lie, a lie_ is like plunging a knife through his heart.

He feels giddiness, because in his dreams, Viktor can allow himself to pretend that he hasn’t been cursed. He gets to pretend that he has someone to love, that someone loves him back. Viktor, the dream-Viktor who laughs and smiles and gets lost in sparkling brown eyes, _belongs_.

Viktor doesn’t want to lie. He knows the pain of false hope all too well. The weight of it has settled onto his shoulders and seeped into his bones. He’s promised himself never to pass it to anyone else. But after all, a dream is just a dream. A lie in a dream is nothing more than a wisp of smoke. And who is he to resist, when such beauty, such love, such pure and brilliant joy temps him?

On ice, Viktor is inhuman, untouchable. Frozen. In dreams, dancing with his Yuuri warm and sweet in his arms, Viktor melts.

Who is he to resist? _Nobody._

Viktor sighs a long sigh, and wonders if pulling the sheets over his head and breathing very slowly might allow him to return to his dream. His eyelashes flutter, tilting towards sleep.

“Viktor! It’s almost six! Is this how you live, at that school?” His mother’s voice, sharp and haughty, shatters any hopes Viktor had of slipping back into the gossamer-frail dreamworld where Yuuri is waiting for him.

“I _thought_ they would be teaching you something more than laziness. All the expensive fees—“ she stops, as if she’s remembered something suddenly.

In a moment, her face transforms. She smiles down at Viktor, eyes crinkled with delight. “Oh, my Viktor. My Vitya, today is your birthday!”

For a moment, Viktor feels like he’s a little boy again. His mother used to wake him up early on his birthday, slipping into his bed just as the sun rose and peppering his face with kisses until he yawned and opened his eyes.

“My little old man,” she would tease him, running her fingers softly through his silver hair. Viktor would laugh at the silly pet name and lean his head against her shoulder.

“What day is it, Mama?”

And she would always reply, “My Vitya, today is your birthday! The whole world is celebrating!” They would eat bird's milk cake for breakfast, spilling crumbs on the bed and smearing cream on each other’s noses.

It’s been a long, long time since Viktor’s mother celebrated his birthday with him.

He looks up at her smiling face and feels impossibly small, lying on his large bed, swaddled in billowing sheets. He feels exposed, vulnerable, slipping easily into nostalgia but too scarred to trust his mother as easily as he once did.

His mother reaches out to brush her hand against his cheek. Her fingers are warm, too warm. They burn into Viktor’s skin, branding him.

“Viktor, it’s your birthday,” she repeats.

“Eleven. I’m going to give you the _best_ present of all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The worst angst yet. What you have all been waiting for and or dreading.
> 
> I am so sorry for:  
> 1\. the long delay  
> 2\. there were no dogs in this chapter  
> 3\. the fact that I lied about the aforementioned dogs
> 
> But! There WILL be at least one dog in the next chapter, OK? For now, if you are very, very angry about the delay in posting or the horrible lack of dogs, please, I encourage you to tell me...in the comments!
> 
> (Reminder: Yes, even angry comments make me as happy as Otabek meeting his Cheerio...um Yurio.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Quite a bit of blood and also medical torture (idk exactly how to describe it...but very evil medical procedures happen and are described in some detail). Stay safe, friends! Please let me know if there's anything else I should tag for.

Viktor’s mother is very particular about appearances. He can’t count the number of times she’s reprimanded him for coming to a meal with his tie crooked or his hair messy from practicing. 

“Vitya,” she always said, “remember that you are not ordinary. You are a Nikiforov. The world looks up to us. Do you understand?”

He hadn’t, not really. But he always said “Yes, mother,” and bowed his head in shame.

This morning, Viktor’s mother takes his hand and tugs him out of bed laughing, her sweet, bright smile turning her face into sunshine. Her hair hangs loose and shining down her back. Viktor thinks that she looks very young, and very lovely.

Both of them are barefoot and dressed only in their nightclothes, but Viktor’s mother doesn’t seem to notice as she leads him to the dining room and tells the cook to make waffles. “For Vitya’s birthday,” she says.

The waffles are hot and sweet and light on Viktor’s tongue. His mother sits across from him, nibbling on a waffle sprinkled with strawberries. A bit of powdered sugar is smudged at the corner of her lips. Viktor wants to fold this moment until it’s small enough that he can tuck it into his pocket to keep forever.

Viktor’s mother watches him reach for his third waffle, and laughs a little.

“I see how you’ve gotten so tall.”

Viktor just nods, and licks the syrup off his fork. If he just keeps eating the sweet waffles, keeps drinking the rich hot cocoa his mother made for him, maybe her smile will last.

“What would you like for your birthday, Viktor? Eleven is a very important age. I’ll get you anything you want. A nice watch, or a new suit, maybe. Do you need another pair of skates?”

“Nothing, mama. I’ve got everything I need.”

“But Vitya, it’s your birthday, please let me get you something,” she pouts.

Viktor tries to think. He remembers his earliest birthdays—at four, and five, and six, all he had wanted was a friend.

“Could I—“ he pauses, knowing what he’s about to ask for might shatter his mother’s smile. “Mama, could I please, please have a dog?”

Viktor knows his mother’s opinion of dogs. She thinks they are too loud, too messy, too open and slobbery in their affection. She hates the way they beg for food and detests the way they roll over to have their bellies rubbed. Disgusting, pitiful animals she called them when Viktor had begged for one as a child.

Now, her mouth pinches a little. She freezes, looks down at her plate. And then she looks back up at Viktor and smiles.

“I did say _anything_. And it is your birthday. A dog will help—yes, Viktor. You may have a dog. Now, please, finish your cocoa.”

He sips the hot drink and wonders what sort of dog he’ll get. He thinks of running over the bridge with a puppy following after him, sweet wet eyes shining and pink tongue lolling out. He thinks of not being alone in his bed any more, of waking up to slobbery kisses and floppy ears. He feels so full and happy and content, so oddly at ease that he could just fall asleep right here, at the table. He blinks a few times, trying to keep his eyes open. Every part of his body is warm and heavy. His muscles feel loose. He tries to hold in a yawn but fails, and covers his mouth a moment too late.

His mother looks at him, her face unreadable, and he wonders if she’s going to scold him for yawning at the table. But she doesn’t scold him. She just strokes his hair, cupping his cheek in her warm hand for a moment.

“Are you sleepy, Vitya? It’s all right. You can close your eyes.”

Viktor tries to reply, tries to argue that he’s not tired at all, but he can’t form the words. His tongue is clumsy in his mouth.

His mother wraps a blanket around his shoulders, swaddling him up in the soft wool as if he’s a baby. Around him, the room blurs and sways. The morning light slipping in through the windows hurts his eyes. He closes them, thinking that he’ll just rest in the darkness for a few moments.

“Sleep, Viktor. I’ll take care of you,” his mother croons. He falls deeper into darkness. His mind goes blank. And then, he’s asleep.

* * *

Yuuri is skating with Yuko, cutting neat curves into the ice as he practices a new routine. He’s competing in a local competition in a week, and he feels lit up with a mixture of excitement and terror, his heart quivering in his chest as he imagines skating for an actual audience.

He’s wearing his costume even though Yuuko had told him not to. “Yuuri, you might tear it!” she had warned, tugging gently at the fragile fabric of his sleeve.

But he had needed to wear it today, needed to feel like a real ice skater instead of just Yuuri. The costume is all one-piece, simple black tights on the bottom and a loose white shirt on the top. The sleeves are long and flowy but tight at his wrists so that they curve out and back in like flower buds. White and pink cherry blossoms are embroidered around the neck and down the back of the top. Yuuri thinks the costume is the prettiest thing he’s ever worn. He wonders if his soulmate would think he looks pretty in it.

He’s been dreaming of the silver-haired boy every night for weeks, skating with him until the morning when they’re tugged apart as he wakes up.

Yuuko comes to a stop in front of him, halting his thoughts with the crisp cut of her skates into the ice. “Yuuri! Your competition is soon! I’m so excited to watch you skate.” She smiles at him, her eyes warm and bright with pride Yuuri hasn’t earned yet. Her reminder sends a spike of anxiety rushing through his heart.

“Ah, Yuuko. Thank you for your support. I hope I won’t disappoint everyone.” He bows his head, hiding his anxiety with practiced formality.

Yuuko just laughs and grabs his hand in hers. She’s known him too long to be fooled by his reserved exterior. “Don’t worry, Yuuri. You won’t disappoint anyone—we’re all so proud of you!”

He bites his lip. “Thanks Yuuko. Will you watch my spins? I have to make sure they’re perfect for the competition.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Yuu-ri,” she sighs in exasperation. “Your spins are perfect. Your jumps are perfect. _You’re_ perfect! You’ve practiced enough for today. Lets go get changed. Anyhow, I have a surprise for you!”

Yuuri wishes he could stay on the ice, alone, to practice his routine a few more times, until his muscles ache and his brain is too tired to be worried. Instead, he smiles at Yuuko and allows her to tug him across the ice. 

They leave the ice and walk to the changing room, sitting down to unlace their skates. Yuuri bends down to tug at his laces and suddenly feel sick, his stomach swirling with nausea. Pain shoots from the mark on his wrist, tracing up his arm and down his spine. The pain is so sharp that he feels frozen by it, unable to speak or breathe. 

Suddenly, the pain stops, and he goes limp, his head resting on his knees. Yuuko turns to him, her eyes wide with concern. “Yuuri? Are you OK? You’re so pale!” Yuuri peers at her from between the sweat-damp strands of his hair, feeling too weak to even lift up his head. He tries to speak but the only thing that comes out is a soft whimper.

Yuuko rests her small, cool hand on his neck. “Are you nervous about the competition, Yuuri? Are you having a panic attack?”

Yuuri remembers the last time he had a panic attack. He had felt like his throat was closing up, like his heart was beating out of control. This feels worse. Everything in his body feels wrong, like the very atoms that make him up are being ripped apart.

How can he explain this feeling to Yuuko? Yuuko, who’s reaching into her bag and murmuring sweetly that “it’ll be OK, it’ll all be OK, Yuuri, I believe in you…”

He lifts his head a little bit, trying to ignore the sickness still swirling in his stomach. Yuuko is crouched before him, a card in her hands.

“Look, Yuuri! I made it for you! I cut all the pictures out of magazines and glued them together. Viktor Nikiforov is the best ice skater in the world, Yuuri—but I know that someday you’re going to be even better than he is!” 

Yuuri can hear Yuuko’s voice but he feels like he’s somewhere very far away from her. She’s still talking, but her words sound muffled and broken and he can only make out a few of them. “Nikiforov—champion—nobody knows—rumors—soulmate—Yuuri—Yuuri? Can you hear me? Yuuri! I’m going to call your mom! Yuuri! Please—Please!”

The pain is back, crashing over him like a tidal wave. It ripples over his skin like fire, and then digs in deep, clawing through his muscles and his bones. The light is suddenly unbearable and he closes his eyes tight. He can hear screaming, sobbing, the sound of something tearing apart and he presses his hands over his ears but the screaming is trapped in his head, battering at the walls of his skull.

Yuuri thinks he might be screaming. He thinks he might be the something tearing apart.

He isn’t in control of his body any more. He can feel himself slipping off the bench, falling onto the damp, cold floor of the changing room. He shudders and twists, limbs contorted on the ground. His mind is a ruin of pain, shattered thoughts drifting in a tangled mass.

Somewhere in the tangled darkness of his mind he knows that the pain he is feeling is an echo, a ghost of his soulmate’s pain. Every scream from his own lips is wrenched up through his soulmate’s lungs and throat, every shudder of his limbs is a mirror of his soulmate’s movements. Tears, hot and bitter, stream from Yuuri’s closed eyes and slip between his lips.

Behind his closed eyes Yuuri can see him, the silver-haired boy. His jewel-bright eyes are closed, silver eyelashes resting like frost on his white cheeks. His mouth is open, twisted in a silent scream. He’s naked, thin chest arched upwards, arms and legs spread out like he’s being crucified. He’s strapped tight to a cold steel table, hands and feet bound in place while his neck jerks wildly. His pulse, caught in his throat like a hummingbird, beats too fast. Yuuri wants to cradle his head in his hands, press kisses to his neck to slow his pulse.

A gleaming knife nears the boy’s arm, and Yuuri screams. The knife darts in, slices him open, stains his pale skin with red. He looks so small, so cold. An ice boy with all the warmth pouring out of him, smearing red across the table.

Yuuri hurts so much. His body lies still on the floor as his mind tears itself apart. The image of the pale, bloody boy swirls away in a flood of darkness. _I love you,_ thinks Yuuri. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry_ , he screams. _Goodbye._ And then he lets go.

* * *

Once, Yuuko found a baby bird in the backyard, a little bundle of grey fluff and too-large yellow beak nestled low in the grass. She picked it up, cradling it gently in her hands. It didn’t make a sound but she could feel that it was still alive, feel the frantic pumping of its heart through its thin, hot skin.

Her mom made a nest for it, cutting strips from an old blanket and tucking them into a basket. Yuuko dripped tiny drops of water from her finger into the bird’s open mouth, brought it tiny pink worms from the garden. It gulped them down hungrily. Its bright little eyes followed her everywhere, and she felt the sweet weight of its trust in her settle, warm and soft, into her heart.

She went to sleep with the little bird’s basket nest next to her bed. In her dreams, she imagined how beautiful it would be when it grew up. How it would fly to her shoulder and sing her pretty songs.

In the morning, the little fledgling lay stiff and cold in the nest, its yellow feet twisted into tiny fists. Its eyes were still open, but they were no longer shiny and trusting. Yuuko had failed. 

When she first met Yuuri, she had thought that he was like that little bird. He was all thin skin and downy softness, all gappy smiles and trusting eyes. She had been so scared for him, so scared that he would fall, that he would cry, that the bullies at school would beat him up and he’d never recover. She had wanted to run away from him so that she wouldn’t have to see the world destroy him. But she couldn’t, so she stayed, and promised herself that she wouldn’t fail again.

Now, Yuuri is lying on the floor of the changing room, his body shuddering and jerking like he’s possessed. He’s crying, face wet with tears and mouth open to scream and gasp. His arms are flung out, palms open as if he’s begging for something. His soulmark is exposed, a fragile medallion of silver glinting against his smooth skin.

Yuuri screams louder, his chest arching off the floor. Suddenly, dark red is pouring from Yuuri’s wrist, trickling down his arm. He shudders and curls in on himself, smearing blood across his cheek and his chest.

Yuuko feels paralyzed. She thinks of the baby bird: alive, _hers_ , and then dead because she failed. _Not again._ Her phone is in her hand and she enters the number without thinking. “I need an ambulance. Right now. My friend—he’s dying.”

On the ground, Yuuri moans. Beside him lies a card with a picture of a silver-haired ice skater glued onto it. The glossy image is splattered with drops of blood.

* * *

Viktor wakes up in his bed, wrapped in cold white sheets. He feels hollow, like someone has cut his chest open and pulled everything out and then sewn him back up, like a human-shaped balloon filled with emptiness instead of helium.

He tries to sit up but he’s too weak. His throat feels raw and his mouth tastes of metal and medicine. His cheeks are sticky and his eyes feel swollen and sore, like he’s been crying for days, but he doesn’t remember crying. He doesn’t remember anything after waffles and hot cocoa and his mother’s sweet, sweet smile.

He feels like he might float away, and he thinks that maybe it floating away would be better than staying here, where everything feels numb and nothing makes sense. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

When Viktor wakes up for the second time he’s still in bed and this time he doesn’t have to wonder about his puffy eyes because he _is_ crying, tears trickling down his cheeks and snot streaming from his nose and the metallic tang of blood sitting at the back of his throat.

This time he doesn’t feel hollow. He feels filled up with lead. He still can’t remember anything, but he knows what happened to him and he wants to scream. He wants to stab himself in the heart and let the lead pour out so that he can drift away again, and never come back.

He rolls to his side and breathes in, stares at the white wall that is exactly the same as the white ceiling above him and the white wall behind him and the white pillows and the white sheets and his white skin. He wonders it he’s real.

He decides that he hurts too much to be anything other than real, and lifts his arm very slowly before dropping it back down roughly, so that pain flares up across his wrist. 

A white bandage is wrapped neatly around his wrist, covering the place where his soulmark is. Where it used to be. A little spot of blood, dried to rusty brown, has seeped through the bandage. Viktor looks at it and almost laughs. How tidily useless it is, like a bandaid over a severed neck, like a kiss placed on top of a shattered heart. He decides to scream instead of laughing. 

Something small and soft and brown stirs, clambering up from the bottom of the large bed. It’s a puppy, a little poodle with silky curls and shining black eyes. The dog stumbles over her own paws, nuzzles her way under Viktor’s chin. He can’t stop crying. He wants to push the dog away.

It’s not a fair trade, he thinks. This floppy, sweet little life to replace—to replace what? His mark was always a lie. _A curse, Vitya. A terrible curse._ He should feel grateful; he’ll finally be able forget about the fact that he’s broken, that nobody will ever love him. He should feel grateful, but instead he feels like he’s lost something that he never had a chance to find. He feels like he’s lost the most fragile, precious thing of all. _My Yuuri._ Hope.

The little dog whines and wiggles against his chest, her tail wagging once and then falling still, like she's afraid he might punish her for being happy. He strokes her soft ears and she pushes her cold little nose into his cheek, begins to lap up his tears.

Viktor clutches the puppy close, suddenly sure that without her warm, heavy little body in his arms he would drown. His tears have almost run out. He bites his lip, thinking of his mother’s kindness this morning, of the rich hot chocolate sliding down his throat. Cream and cocoa and sugar and drugs. He closes his eyes, mouth twisting into a grimace. The puppy’s breath is warm and wet against his cheek. _At least she kept her promise_ , he thinks bitterly.

His wrist aches, but not as much as his heart. He feels like he’ll never be whole again. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine a glittering ice rink and on it, a boy with downy black hair and brown eyes filled with love. 

He tries to imagine the boy’s warm hand in his, the golden laughter stretching between them, the feeling of skating together in perfect harmony. _My Yuuri._ He knows that the boy is only a dream, as much of a lie as his false mark. He knows that he’s not real, but right now he wants to believe in Yuuri, wants to believe that Yuuri loves him back.

Viktor falls asleep, and doesn’t dream at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Surprise, it's More Angst! Did I tell you that this story will have the happiest, softest, warmest, coziest ending ever? Well, now I did...and I never lie :) 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! It makes me so happy that I can't express myself eloquently, so squeeeee! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> (Reminder, your comments make me feel like Emil feels all the time haha!)


	7. Chapter 7

It’s worse than being a wrong-mark, worse than having no friends at school, worse than being a disappointment. Losing his soulmate shatters Yuuri. Knowing that the person he loves most in the world died before he could even meet him, before he could convince him to love Yuuri back, is the ultimate proof that Yuuri is unworthy.

After falling apart on the floor of the changing room and being rushed, unconscious, to the hospital, Yuuri wakes up in a sterile room with his parents at his side. They all cry for a long time, and his mom lies next to him in his hospital bed, cradling him against her chest.

Yuuri’s parents know their son. They know that he tends towards anxiety, that he doesn’t think he’s good enough, that he’s a gentle soul in a harsh world. They’re good at comforting him. They’ve always known how to say, “It’ll all be OK, Yuuri. Don’t worry,” with just the right amount of conviction to make him feel safe and strong.

Now, they don’t bother trying to lie to him. It’s not OK. It might never be OK again. At barely eight years old, Yuuri Katsuki is going through something that has destroyed adults.

The nurse comes in and tries to give him some sleeping medicine, but he doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to lie here and cry until he doesn’t have any more tears left.

He pushes back the too-long sleeve of his sickly-green hospital gown, and stares at the mark on his wrist. Where it used to shine silver, as magical and lovely as a real snowflake, it is now white and flat, all the color drained from it. The skin around the mark is swollen and red, sore. The mark looks like a scar, like something that had been cut into him with a knife a long time ago. He presses his thumb against the mark, hard, until it stings.

He’s had this snowflake on his skin since he was born. It has always felt like a part of him, as much a part of what makes Yuuri himself as his brown eyes and messy hair. Now, the mark makes him feel like a stranger in his own skin. He used to belong to someone. Who is this boy with a scar on his wrist? Who is this boy without a soulmate? Who can he be? Not Yuuri. No, not him.

Yuuri wants to dig his fingernails into the mark and rip it out of his skin. It’s too much, the reminder too painful.

He whimpers. “Mom, mom, please, please, mom.” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for. His mom can’t fix this problem.

Hiroko sobs, strokes his cheek so softly. “Yuuri, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

He just looks at her with wide, wet eyes, his face shattered and tear-stained. He’s so young. “Please,” Yuuri whispers, like he’s asking her to tell him that it’s all a mistake, that he’s just had a bad nightmare, that his soulmate is still out there, waiting for him, loving him.

She can’t lie to Yuuri. He’s so strong. Strong enough to survive this. “I’m so sorry, Yuuri. I’m sorry. I love you. We all love you, so much. Forever and ever.” She kisses his face, strokes his hair, wills the words to sink deep into his skin and mark him as permanently as the mark on his wrist.    

Yuuri just curls closer to her, burying his face in her neck. He whimpers again and she’s sure she can hear his heart breaking, splintering like glass inside his chest.

* * *

When they come home from the hospital, Mari is waiting in the kitchen with hot tea and a bundle of brown fur in her arms.

She doesn’t say sorry, like Yuuri’s mom. She doesn’t cry softly like his dad. She just looks at him, and then nods, like she can see that he’s going to be OK, even if he doesn’t feel like it. Like she’s sure of his strength, sure enough for both of them. Yuuri feels impossibly grateful for Mari, right then.

She shifts the brown bundle in her arms, and it whines, and Yuuri realizes that Mari is holding a tiny puppy. He gasps, reaching out for the dog automatically. She laughs at him, just like she always does. Everything feels normal, for a moment. Yuuri has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying when he remembers that it’s not. He’s cried enough today.

Mari settles the little dog into his arms and he’s so small and light and warm. He licks Yuuri’s ear with his little pink tongue, panting softly. Yuuri hugs the puppy tight, nuzzling into his silky fur.

Somehow, the slight weight of the dog in his arms makes him feel lighter than he’s felt since he collapsed in the changing room.

Mari is smiling at him. His parents are standing behind them, frozen, like they’re wondering if they did the right thing, if the dog is going to help him feel more whole.

His voice is rough and thin, but he forces the words out. “What’s his name?”

Mari grins at him. “His name’s Viktor. Yuuko chose it, a long time ago, actually. He was supposed to be a birthday present but his litter was born later than expected and he couldn’t leave his mom right away.”

Yuuri looks down at the puppy in his arms, gets lost in the dog’s sweet black eyes. “Viktor,” he murmurs, stroking the puppy’s velvety ears. He doesn’t know why Yuuko chose that name, but it feels familiar. Maybe it’s the name of one of the ice skating celebrities she’s always chattering about.

“Vikchan,” he says, smiling as the puppy lets out a little yip. “Oh, you like that name?  
he asks the dog. The only answer is a wet tongue swiping over his cheek. Yuuri thinks that’s a yes.

He laughs, just a little, quiet and fragile. It feels foreign in his mouth, like a sweet he shouldn’t have. He tries not to feel guilty.

Yuuri turns to his parents, still clutching Vikchan in his arms. “Mom, Dad. Thank you. Thank you,” his voice cracks a little bit, but he’s smiling through the tears that are gathering in his eyes. His heart still aches, he still feels strange and lost without the promise of his soulmate’s love, but his family is here with him, now. Their love for him is reliable and eternal. Already, the little dog in his arms trusts him, relies on Yuuri to care for him.

Maybe, Yuuri thinks, Mari is right. Maybe he’s strong enough.

* * *

Everything changes after Yuuri’s mark goes white. Yuuri doesn’t know if school is better or worse, afterwards. Worse, probably.

The bullies leave him alone. Nobody talks to him at all, anymore. When his classmates happen to look at him by accident, their faces go blank, as if they’re looking at a ghost, and then they quickly turn away.

His teachers speak to him very softly and very quietly, as if they’re afraid he’ll break at any moment. He stops turning in his homework and gives up on studying for tests, but they never reprimand him. When he gets his report card, he has perfect marks in every class.

Yuuri focuses his energy on skating, and skating alone. He wakes up early, cleans his room and helps his mom cook breakfast in the quiet hours before the onsen guests wake up. He eats his food robotically, and then walks to school with his headphones tucked snugly over his ears. He drifts through the school day silently, feeling lost and unreal. After class he goes straight to the ice rink, where he loses himself for hours on end.

On ice, he can imagine that his soulmate is still with him, encouraging him as he practices his jumps and spins, helping him up when he falls down. The rink at Hasetsu’s ice castle is the only place where he can picture his soulmate’s lovely face, his shining eyes and flowing silver hair.

Yuuri’s feet are constantly bruised, mottled with blue and black and disfigured with blisters and scars. His knees and ankles are battered, his back creaks when he stretches. Yuuri is pushing himself to his limits, reaching for something—someone—who’s far beyond his grasp.

He pushes himself too far, and falls, again and again. But then he grows stronger, stronger, stronger until he can land another jump, try a new spin, skate for hours before falling to his knees.

Yuuri competes in a few more local competitions, and performs beautifully. The people in the audience are stunned at the precision of his movements, in awe of the melancholy beauty held in his small body.

The years drift by, with Yuuri caught up in a tireless routine of home, school, dance studio, ice rink. He skates until midnight. He skates in the morning before class. He skates until his toes are bleeding and he feels dizzy with exertion. He skates until he can hear his soulmate’s voice in his ear, _my Yuuri, my Yuuri. I’m here. I’m yours._ He skates in his dreams, skates constantly, skates until he’s almost good enough.

Sometimes he wonders what good enough might be, what will happen if he reaches the pinnacle. If he skates perfectly, if he’s the best in the world, will he be able to feel the echo of his soulmate’s arms around him again?

Sometimes, in the deepest, most broken part of his mind he thinks that maybe if he’s good enough, if he’s perfect, his soulmate will come back to life. If he just proves that he’s worthy of his soulmate’s love— _if—_ and then he stops thinking about impossible things and keeps skating, because really, that’s all he knows how to do.

In a few years he’s skating in national competitions, and then larger competitions with skaters from across Asia. Mari tells him that he has fans, that they post pictures of him in flower crowns on the internet and write stories about him kissing them. He thinks she must be joking. It doesn’t matter, anyhow. There’s only one person Yuuri is skating for.

* * *

On ice, Yuuri imagines that his soulmate is skating with him. It’s harder now than it was when he was young, before his mark turned white. Back then, he could feel the silver-haired boy’s breath on his cheek, feel his fingertips pressing into Yuuri’s waist and guiding him as he skated. He had been more real than a dream, somehow. Now, he is less than a ghost. Yuuri has to strain to picture his blue eyes and gentle smile. He can only hold the image of his soulmate in his mind for a few moments before it begins to dissolve, slipping away and leaving only a permanent, aching hollowness behind.

Hiroko sent Yuuri to a grief counselor for months after his soulmate died. She was a small woman with a low, raspy voice that sounded like the wind and piercing grey eyes. She settled Yuuri in a plush couch in her white room and asked him questions about school, about skating, about Vikchan, about anything other than his soulmate. Yuuri didn’t answer the questions. He just stared down at his feet, dangling a few inches above the ground. Sometimes he cried, and then she would bite her tongue and allow him to sob into the silence, humming in the back of her throat and scribbling down notes.

Yuuri begged Hiroko not to send him anymore.

“Just give her a little time, Yuuri. I think she can help you, if you let her,” she’d said. Yuuri had bitten his lip and nodded, and then gone to his room and cried into Vikchan’s velvet fur.

At the end of his last appointment, the counselor took Yuuri’s small hand in her larger one. “Yuuri, I know that right now, it hurts a lot. But you’re strong. I think—I think that you are strong enough to let go, and it’s OK. Do you know that it’s OK?” 

“What? What’s OK?” Yuuri had asked.

“It’s OK if you need to let go of your soulmate. You can acknowledge the fact that he’s gone. It might make it easier for you to move on.”

Yuuri was so tired. He was so tired of adults pretending that they understood what it was like to lose the person you loved most in the world. Pretending that this was somehow easier for him because he was just a child and had never met his soulmate. Yuuri knew that he was young and sad and lost, but he also knew his own heart.

He pulled his hand away. “I can’t let go. I don’t want to move on!” He was angry, shouting, and he couldn’t stop himself. “Even if he’s dead, it doesn’t matter. He’s still my soulmate. He’s the only one I’ll ever have.” 

Yuuri never does let go. He imagines his soulmate on ice and dreams him back to life while he sleeps. His ability to imagine his soulmate grows weaker, his daydreams become fuzzy echoes of a silver haired boy. But all the while, his nighttime dreams grow more and more vivid.

Sometimes they are so sweet and simple that he forgets he’s dreaming. At thirteen, Yuuri dreams that he is walking along the ocean with his soulmate, their hands tangled together between them and the sweetness of ice cream lingering in their mouths. He can smell the salt in the air, feel the soft white sand shifting under his feet, hear the waves crashing against the shore. His soulmate tugs him into the water and they splash at each other until they are damp and laughing, and then curl up on a blanket spread over the sand and doze off in the sun, Yuuri’s face tucked into the other boy’s neck. Yuuri nuzzles into the curve of his soulmate’s shoulder, savoring the fragile softness of his skin there. He smells like oranges and mint. Yuuri wakes up from the dream with a smile on his lips and bleary, gritty eyes. He thinks the grittiness is sand, for a few golden moments, and then realizes that it is only dried tears.

Sometimes his dreams are nightmares. Sometimes they are worse than nightmares, because they are real. Yuuri has never told his family about what he saw before he collapsed in the changing room and Yuuko called the ambulance. It is too terrible to put into words. But he dreams it, again and again. At fifteen he dreams that his soulmate is laid out on the same cold metal table, ankles and wrists bound, dripping blood and quivering with pain.

But this time, his blue eyes are open and Yuuri is in the room, and his soulmate is calling out to him. “Yuuri. Please, please help me. Save me, Yuuri. It hurts! Yuuri!” His voice is a long scream, a broken wail, and Yuuri can’t do anything. He is frozen in place, useless in the sterile room while the doctors let his soulmate’s life bleed away. Yuuri wakes up after that dream with tears streaming down his cheeks. He runs to the bathroom and kneels on the cool floor, his stomach cramped and sick feeling. Yuuri throws up, again and again, until only acid bile comes up. Even after he is done being sick, he can’t return to his room. Instead, he curls up on the tile floor, his body shaking with tremors he can’t stop. His breaths are rapid and jerky. That dream is the worst of all. 

When he is sixteen, the dreams change again. The nightmares become less frequent. Instead, Yuuri dreams of things that make him feel both electrified and ashamed, elated and hopeless.

Yuuri is quiet and shy, but he isn’t blind. All around him his classmates are finding their soulmates. The hallways are crowded with couples curled around each other, hands tugging at hair and grasping at waists. In class, Yuuri stares at the little purple bruises decorating his classmate’s necks. He sees how they clasp hands in the cafeteria, whisper into each other’s ears, pass smiles meant only for each other across the hallway.

Yuuko discovers that her soulmate is Takeshi, the boy she has known since childhood. Their relationship blooms slowly and delicately. They never kiss in public, and it takes months before they hold hands, but whenever they walk together they leaned into each other like they are being drawn together by some sort of invisible gravity. Yuuri is happy for Yuuko. He doesn’t mind spending time with her and Takeshi, who is always careful not to make him feel excluded from their conversations. But seeing how much they love each other is a bitter reminder that he will never have that type of bond for himself.

Yuuri’s dreams, he thinks, are probably a result of the desperate loneliness he feels at school, and also the embarrassing need that runs through his body, sometimes, at night.

At sixteen, Yuuri dreams of heat. He dreams of himself, lying naked on his crumpled sheets with his soulmate above him, bending over him so that their chests were pressed together and he can kiss Yuuri’s face and neck. The kisses always start innocently, lips as light and soft as butterflies brushing against his own. But then there is an insistent tongue teasing at Yuuri’s mouth, begging him to part his lips. He can’t resist it. His soulmate nips at his lips, bruising them, and then sooths over the sting with his tongue. His breath, warm and sweet in Yuuri’s mouth or damp and hot against his cheek, tastes like burnt sugar. Yuuri’s fingers tangle in silver hair, heavy and smooth as silk. His soulmate’s hands skim down his sides, stroke back up the curve of his hips, splay over his chest and stay there, like the other boy is feeling his pounding heart. Yuuri is surrounded by him, caught and cradled, overwhelmed by the scent of him and the feel of him. His soulmate is all heat. Burning kisses and melting hands, hot lips marking Yuuri and starfire eyes locked on his as he whimpers and twists in his grasp. His soulmate touches him, kisses him, encourages him with sweet smiles and glowing laughter until Yuuri gives himself over to the heat and pleasure and allows himself to fall apart while his soulmate strokes his hair and lavishes kisses over the bruises staining his collarbone. Yuuri wakes up from these dreams with his soulmate’s voice still echoing inside his head. _Yuuri. So beautiful. I love you, Yuuri. Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri. Solnyshko._

He wakes up with dream-bruises burning hot and invisible on his skin, his body flushed and slick with sweat. He wakes up with his sheets tangled around his legs and sticky dampness staining his pajamas. Yuuri goes to the bathroom and stares into the mirror, at his flushed cheeks and dark eyes, pupils blown so wide that his brown irises are just a ring around them. His heart is still thudding wildly in his chest, his body still feels electric and eager. Yuuri stares at himself, tousled and aroused, and tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes.

He feels a press of soft fur against his bare ankle, and looks down to see Vikchan’s sweet face peering up at him. The dog’s bright black eyes and pink tongue glisten, and he tilts his head curiously like he’s asking Yuuri what’s wrong. Yuuri bends down and scoops the poodle into his arms, pressing his cheek against Vikchan’s squashy stomach.

“Vikchan,” he murmurs. “I’m such a mess. I keep dreaming about him and it feels so real but he’s dead, he’s dead, Vikchan. I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” He gasps, trying to stop the tears, but they’re falling heavily now. Vikchan whimpers and licks his chin. “I’m going to be alone. Forever. I don’t know if I can do it…” Yuuri clutches the dog closer and goes back to his bed, where he covers himself in too many blankets and wills himself back to sleep and doesn’t dream again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Yuri P. needs a friend and Viktor is sad but lovely. 
> 
> I just wanted to say how incredibly thankful I am for everyone who is reading this. I know the updates have been quite rare lately--thank you for all your patience and support! I read (and reread, and probably read a third time, too) each and every comment, and they make me cry with happiness (literally, I'm a very weepy person). 
> 
> I also wanted to say that, as someone who reads a lot of fic, I am always so curious about the authors. Now, as a writer, I am curious about you and I would love to get to know you better. Let's be friends! To kickstart our friendship I'm going to tell you a fact about myself, and you can tell me something about yourselves, too, if you want to! My favorite children's book is Phillip Pullman's The Golden Compass. What's your favorite book?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thanks for all the love, I can't tell you how happy it makes me. Your comments and support always bring me back to writing, even when I'm having a tough time. This is actually a pretty happy chapter (OK, I mean, it has some happy moments, which is better than normal for me) and it's for you, so I hope you enjoy it!

Viktor goes back to Yakov and the training school as soon as his wound is mostly healed and he can drag himself out of bed.  He’s still sick but he can’t bear to stay at home with his mother, trapped in the cold, quiet house.

He begs Lilia to allow Makka to come live with her, and she allows it after he tells her that he’s worried his mother will abandon his dog to the streets if he goes back to St. Petersburg and leaves the puppy at home.

When Viktor leaves, he takes everything he cares about. A few children’s books, a knobby blanket knitted by his sister when she was first learning, a compass his grandfather gave him when he was barely old enough to stand. He packs enough warm clothes to last him through the next few winters, and stuffs a couple of expensive ties and scarves into a separate bag to sell in the city. He buys a soft leather collar and leash for Makkachin, and when they leave to catch the train that will take them into the city, Viktor doesn’t look back. He’s not leaving anything he’ll miss behind.

Returning to training heals him more than any medicine or period of rest or white bandage. There is no better distraction from sorrow than skating until his muscles burn and his face is numbed with cold. There is no better distraction than forcing himself up into the air and crashing down hard, again and again, while Yakov tells him that he’s still not good enough. There’s no better distraction than eating borsch with Georgi and Mila at the café near the rink after practice and listening to Georgi moan about the girl he’s in love with and watching Mila pretend to gag and laughing hard until his ribs hurt. There’s no better distraction than finally performing a jump perfectly, landing on his blades to find Yakov smiling at him and the other skaters watching in awe.

Sometimes, in the dark, at night, alone, the distractions aren’t enough.

Lying in his bed, listening to the sound of his own breathing, Viktor smooths his fingers over the scar on his wrist. The pain comes and goes but it’s worse at night, spreading up his arm and whipping through his heart. It makes him curl up, curl in on himself.

Sometimes the pain comes with memories, or dreams. He keeps thinking of the boy he had imagined as a child—the black-haired boy who skated with him in a dream-rink and called him his soulmate. Yuuri. Those dreams are worse than the pain because he knows they’re a lie. He’s never had a soulmate. He thinks that the boy is just a cruel fantasy, a torturous trick his brain is playing on him. But he feels so real.

Viktor never daydreams of the boy again, as he had once. The black-haired fantasy is relegated to his sleeping hours. Sometimes they walk along a beach together, chasing the scent of salt and the sound of seagulls. Sometimes they are in the city, laughing and chasing each other across the bridge.

Sometimes they are in a little bakery, eating fresh bread with honey and drinking lavender tea.

The worst thing is that Viktor can’t get rid of the dreams. He tries sleeping medicines, tries insomnia, tries meditation—none of it works. He’s plagued by the sweetest reminders of what he’ll never have.

In Viktor’s dreams, Yuuri grows up as he does.

Viktor grows into a teenager, shedding his last bits of baby fat. His face is beautiful, still angelic—but now his features are sharper, more obviously melancholy. His bones stretch and his new willowy height allows him to skate even more gracefully.

In his dreams, Yuuri grows taller, too. Viktor watches him twirling in a green, jasmine-scented dream garden and admires the lines of his body, the silk-soft fall of his hair, the soft pink of his lips. Is this what his fans see, he wonders, when they call him beautiful?

The dreams become sweeter, sharper, hotter. There are kisses and touches, scorching glances and bare, velvet skin. They make Viktor ashamed, but what is he really ashamed of? They’re just dreams. Yuuri is just a figment of his imagination.

Still, he wakes up from the dreams shaking, half aroused and half longing, empty.

The scar is a blank spot on his arm, a hole where something else should be. He feels it in his heart, a gaping, empty hole.

He tries to tell himself that he shouldn’t miss a fake soulmate, shouldn’t miss something he never really had. Somehow, it doesn’t help.

By the time he’s properly a man, in his twenties, Viktor’s given up on filling that hole. He has skating, he has Georgi and Mila and Yakov and Lilia and Makkachin. He has his distant, screaming fans. He has the scar on his wrist, and his vivid, aching dreams. It’s enough, he thinks. It has to be enough.

He thinks he’ll forget about the mark over time, leave it behind in the past. He thinks he’ll forget, that is, until he meets Yuri.

* * *

 

When he’s eighteen, Yuuri decides that it’s time to leave Japan. He’s learned all he can from local coaches, and there’s only so much he can teach himself. He’s skilled enough to start competing in the international competitions, but he needs to train in America, with a real coach.

He tells himself that it’s just that—his need for a new coach. And it is—but it’s also about him needing to get away from his small home town. In Hasetsu, he’s constantly reminded of what he’s lost. His family tiptoe’s around him, always too kind and gentle. Yuuko and Takeshi avoid kissing in front of him, and jerk apart guiltily when they grasp for each other’s hands out of habit. All around town he sees his old classmates, the boys and girls who had once teased him and now look at him with so much pity that it makes him want to cry.

In the end, Yuuri tells his parents that he needs to leave Japan so he can make a new start. On the surface, he’s talking about the start of his professional career. Underneath, it’s just a new start—for his whole life, for him. Yuuri wants to shed all the sorrows that cling to him in Hasetsu.

He goes to Detroit, to study dance and train with Celestino Cialdini. Detroit feels so far from Japan, like he’s on a different planet entirely instead of just on the other side of this one. It’s freeing and lonely at the same time. He misses his family constantly. He misses drinking tea with his mother, skating with Yuuko, running along the beach with Vicchan bounding ahead of him.

His English is good enough for him to get by, but the constant strain of mentally rehearsing every word and sentence before speaking is exhausting. His classmates are kind, but he never becomes very close with any of them. He feels like there’s a wall between him and them, and as soon as they notice his mark, they always speak to him like he’s fragile, breakable, a little child to be pitied. He considers just hiding his mark from them, but then he might have to explain why he doesn’t have a soulmate yet, and watching the pity settle onto their faces slowly as he tells the story would be even worse than seeing it crash over them when they catch a glimpse of his scar.

Almost everyone his age has found their soulmate already. It’s easier, now, than it was for their parents and grandparents. The internet is full of soulmark databases, and for those who are really desperate, there are businesses that can match soulmates.

Yuuri goes to the library, and he’s surrounded by couples and groups of soulmates cuddling while they study, exchanging little kisses for correct answers, and turning pages at the same time because they’re so in sync. He’s happy for them, he really is. They look so content, wrapped up in their own little worlds. Still, seeing them just makes him remember that he’ll never have that sense of belonging, that sense of comfort. It’s a painful reminder.

So, Yuuri spends much of his time in Detroit alone. His first year, he barely ventures outside of his dorm other than going to classes and skating practice. He’s lucky that he lowest level of his dorm has a small dining hall where he feels comfortable. It’s not open on Sunday, so he eats protein bars or orders takeout, slurping up noodles with enough sodium to make Ciao Ciao faint in horror.

It’s not until his second year that he really makes his first friend. He moves into a new dorm, one at the edge of campus--far from his classes, but close enough to the rink that he can skate in the morning without having to jog all the way across campus before it’s even light out.

This dorm is a little nicer than the last one, but it doesn’t have the same dining hall set up and Yuuri’s nervous about where he’s going to eat. He bites his lip and tries not to panic too much about it. Maybe this year will be better, he thinks.

His room is at the top of the building. He heads up the creaky stairs to the third floor, and walks down the hallway until he comes to room 308. He knocks softly and a bright voice comes from behind the door— “Come right in!”

Yuuri brushes a hand through his hair, hopes it’s not sticking up too much, and swings the door open. He’s barely opened his mouth to introduce himself when a warm body slams into his and he’s wrapped in a tight hug. His nose is filled with a sweet, tickly ginger and lime scent and he almost sneezes.

Yuuri gasps and the boy pulls back from him, his cheeks flushed. He has a wide grin and shining crescent eyes exaggerated with winged liner. “Sorry, sorry,” he laughs. “I didn’t mean to attack you—I’m just so excited to meet you! I’ve been here for _days_ alone—there was supposed to be some international student orientation but it only took up one morning so I’ve just been sitting here bored and lonely. Anyhow, I’m Phichit! What’s your name?”

“I’m Yuuri,” says Yuuri, trying to sound optimistic and un-anxious.

Phichit grins and sticks out his hand for Yuuri to shake. It feels like an absurdly formal gesture after he’s already attacked him, but Yuuri takes his hand anyhow. Rather than shaking, Phichit clasps Yuuri’s hand tight in his own warm one.

Yuuri can see the moment Phichit catches a glimpse of his ash-white mark, glaringly bright against his skin. Phichit’s eyes tighten for one moment but he doesn’t say anything, just pulls Yuuri into another warm hug. “We’re going to be such good friends,” he chirps. “You have _gorgeous_ eyes—do you think I could do your makeup sometime??”

Yuuri almost laughs in spite of himself. He’s sort of terrified of Phichit’s energy, but already the ball-of-sunshine boy is making him feel lighter.

He looks over to the mess in Phichit’s corner of the room, the stacks of boxes and bags, the tangled mess of brightly-colored blankets on his bed.

“Why don’t we start by getting you unpacked,” he says. “You look like you could use some help.”

Phichit looks at the mess and wrinkles his nose.

“Ugh,” he sighs. “I’m just not good at organizing. Maybe we could go get some food, first? I’m starving, and my Insta has been dead for too long. Too long, Yuuri! Do you know any place where we can get some tasty and aesthetic food near here?”

Yuuri’s cheeks flush. How can he tell Phichit that he never went out to eat once all last year? He doesn’t want to reveal how shy he is to his bubbly roommate.

Yuuri looks down at his hands. “Ummm—” he begins, but Phichit interrupts him. He holds up his phone with a wide grin on his face.  
  
“Perfect!” he exclaims. “There’s a ramen place just two blocks away _and_ it has great reviews on yelp.”

A wave of relief floods over Yuuri. “Oh, yeah,” he says, “that sounds perfect.”

Phichit rubs a hand over his belly and then grabs his coat. He looks at Yuuri, still bundled up from traveling.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Yuuri follows him out the door, smiling as Phichit begins to chatter about his favorite ramen toppings.

* * *

 

Yakov is almost never late to practice, and when he is it usually means bad news. The last time it happened he was late to practice because he was picking up Viktor’s competition costume for the Grand Prix and it had been sewn in bright cayenne instead of deep indigo.

So, when he doesn’t arrive on time and is still absent forty minutes into practice, Viktor starts to worry. He’s old enough now that he doesn’t need Yakov to show him how to skate. He knows his spins and jumps perfectly, like they’re a part of him. He even choreographs his own routines.

But he still needs Yakov—the old man, strict and traditional, provides something for Viktor to push back against. Yakov’s biting critique’s and gruff compliments force him to try to be the best he can be, to endlessly surprise his audience. Viktor’s always loved skating, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to top himself. His only competition is himself, and his victories are feeling more and more hollow with each gold medal he hangs around his neck.

Viktor tries not to let the other skaters realize that he’s nervous—he leads them in a series of warm ups, and then tells them to practice their routines. Mila has a competition in a week and she’s working herself too hard, so he makes her skate laps around the rink with him. It’s nice, sometimes, to just enjoy the simple speed of skating, the ice sliding past under their blades. He wishes it was enough of a distraction to stop him from worrying about Yakov, to stop him from worrying about his own lackluster program.

Mila stops skating a moment before he does, turning to look towards the other side of the rink. There’s Yakov, scowling and dressed in dark colors as usual—but beside him is a slim, blonde-haired boy. The boy is young, smaller than Viktor, but he stands with his shoulders squared and his feet wide apart, like he’s getting ready for a fight.

Without a word, Viktor turns and skates towards Yakov and the newcomer.

When he reaches them, he frowns. “You’re late,” he reminds Yakov.

“My apologies,” says Yakov, sounding utterly unapologetic. “I had to get Yuri.”

A shock jolts through Viktor’s heart.

“Yuuri?” he murmurs. “My Yuuri?”

Yakov frowns. “Yes, this is Yuri.” He gestures to the blonde boy beside him. “Yuri Plisetsky. He’s done very well in the juniors and he’s going to train with me full-time now— “

Suddenly Viktor remembers. He’s seen this boy with Yakov before. In juniors, Yuri had trained with another coach but met with Yakov once a week for private lessons, and Viktor had sometimes seen him leaving the rink before his own sessions. He never learned his name, though. A mixture of relief and intense disappointment settles in his stomach. _Yuri_ , he thinks. _Not my Yuuri._

The boy smiles flatly at Viktor and sticks out his hand. “The living legend,” he mutters sarcastically. Viktor looks into his thin pale face, his hard green eyes, the way his lips are chapped raw from too much time spent in the chill of the rink. He knows how much this boy has given up to be one of the best—in many ways, they’re alike.

He reaches out to shake Yuri’s hand. “I’m Viktor,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

From behind Yuri, Yakov clears his throat. “Good then,” he says. “I’m glad you’ll get along—Viktor, I want you to work with Yuri. Mila and Georgi both have qualifying competitions soon. I need to focus on them for now. Let Yuri show you what he can do, and then help him with the jumps he hasn’t mastered yet.”

Viktor sighs. He doesn’t have time to help a prickly teenager with some simple jumps. He remembers what it was like when he was first starting out, and he’s sympathetic to the boy—but this isn’t his job. He has his own routine to work on.

Yuri turns to Yakov. “But you never— “. Yakov shushes him with a palm held out to block his words. “No buts, Yuri. Viktor’s the best. You can’t complain about him training you.”

Viktor’s about to add his own protest, but Yakov’s already made up his mind. The old man turns away, walking towards Mila, already yelling at her about her arm position.

Viktor looks back to Yuri. “I guess you’re stuck with me,” he quips. Yuri just glares.

“Well then,” says Viktor. He looks at Yuri’s blonde hair flowing down over his cheeks and getting in his eyes. “Maybe start by tying up your hair, and then you can show me your jumps.”

Yuri practically growls at him. “I always skate like this,” he gestures to his hair, “with it down.”

Viktor glares back. “Now you don’t. This isn’t interpretive dance. You need to see what you’re doing, tiger.”

Yuri glances down at his tiger-emblazoned sweatshirt and flushes. He tucks a strand of pale hair behind his ear. “Please,” he says, “Please don’t make me.”

“Fine then,” Viktor says. “You can practice without me.”

He’s just about to turn away when Yuri grimaces and reaches up to twist his hair into a messy bun.

“Happy, now?” he asks Viktor.

“Thrilled,” Viktor replies.

In a few moments Yuri’s put on his skates and peeled off the absurd tiger sweatshirt. The black workout gear underneath makes him look even paler and angrier.

Viktor doesn’t notice the mark until Yuri’s skating out towards the middle of the rink. It’s a flash of silver low in the middle of his neck, almost hidden by the edge of his shirt. Viktor catches up to him and clasps his shoulder, holding him still.

Yuri tries to wriggle out of his grasp, but Viktor holds him tighter.

The mark is a curled strand of delicate leaves, wrapping around one of the knobs of Yuri’s spine. Viktor thinks it’s a willow branch.

He’s tempted to reach out to touch it. He can feel his scar burning, the pain shooting up his arm.

He lets out a soft gasp. “Yuri,” he murmurs. He thought he was the only one. How can this poor boy be cursed like him?

Yuri finally breaks free of his grasp. He pulls his hair out of the bun and lets it fall down to cover the mark.

He looks at Viktor with sharp eyes. “Don’t say anything about my mark,” he spits out. “I don’t care what you think about it. It’s none of your business, OK? Just forget you even saw it.”

Viktor wants to tell him that he’s sorry, that he understands, that there’s a cure (a horrible, painful cure, but still, a cure), but Yuri’s already skating off, his mane of pale hair streaming out behind him, looking almost as silver as his mark under the rink’s bright fluorescent lighting.

* * *

 

Phichit doesn’t get around to unpacking his room properly until they’re two weeks into the school year. One evening Yuuri comes in from classes and trips over a box, lands on his face, and almost cracks his glasses.

In the short time he’s known Phichit, the cheerful Thai boy has become his best friend. They’re almost always together—skating in Ciao Ciao’s training sessions, practicing their routines in the morning, studying in the library, eating, and watching _The King and the Skater_ over and over again. Yuuri loves Phichit—the other boy seems to understand him perfectly without Yuuri needing to explain anything about himself, from his white soulmark scar to his constant social anxiety.

But even his love for Phichit isn’t enough to make Yuuri ignore the fact that their shared living space is a mess.

He stands up, checks his glasses, and sees Phichit staring at him guiltily from the kitchen.

“We have to clean, Phichit,” Yuuri begs.

Phichit sighs. “OK, OK. I’ll unpack. I just didn’t want you to see—” he trails off, giggling and blushing. He has a wooden soup spoon in one hand and Yuuri wonders if he’s been drinking and cooking again.

“See what?” Yuuri asks. It’s rare for Phichit to be embarrassed about anything.

“You’ll see soon, anyhow,” Phichit says, refusing to answer.

Yuuri sighs. “OK. Well, if you finish making dinner I’ll start on those boxes.”

Phichit’s eyes dart over to the stack of boxes and the pile of clothing on his bed. He looks at the spoon in his hand and sticks his tongue out to lick it.

“Yeah,” he tells Yuuri. “That would be great. Thank you!”

With Phichit happily humming to himself and stirring his soup in the kitchen, Yuuri starts in on the boxes.

The first few aren’t anything unusual—warm clothing, extra socks, quilts, extra sheets. He puts these away neatly in Phichit’s closet and drawers. The next box is filled with cooking supplies, which is cute, and not surprising considering what he knows of Phichit. The one under that is filled with _The King and The Skater_ merchandise—everything from a cute printed pillow to figurines of the characters, as well as DVDs of the two sequels. Yuuri wonders if this is what Phichit was embarrassed about, but there’s no way Phichit can think he’s hid his love of the movie from Yuuri—they’ve watched it so much that Yuuri can quote the lines himself.

Then Yuuri opens the next box, a much bigger one, and sees the posters. The small ones are stacked up and tied neatly with string, and the larger ones are rolled up. Yuuri pulls out one of the smaller ones and gasps.

It’s a picture of a figure skater, wearing a fuchsia suit with gold tassels at the arms and matching gold-bladed skates. His costume is beautiful and his pose is elegant, princely, but it’s his face that Yuuri is drawn to.

Sapphire blue eyes stare out from the poster and pierce into Yuuri’s heart. He strokes a finger across ivory skin and starlight silver hair, pale pink lips and high cheek bones. He lets out a shaky breath.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Phichit staring at him.

“Yuuri, please don’t judge me. I know it’s dumb to have such an obsession but I’m a true fanboy, I’ve loved Viktor since his debut—he’s practically the king of figure skating!”

Yuuri looks down at the image in his hands. “What did you say his name was, Phichit? He looks so familiar— “

Phichit’s eyebrows draw together. “What?! Yuuri! You’re a professional ice skater, how do you not know who Viktor Nikiforov is? He’s the best! I can show you all his programs for the past—forever, really. Like I said, major fanboy here!”

Yuuri sighs. "I don't really keep up with news about other skaters. It makes me really stressed to think about all the people out there who are better than me. Like I'll never catch up to them." 

Phichit frowns at Yuuri. "You don't need to be anxious, Yuuri. You're so good, you're the best." Phichit gives a lovesick sigh. "Still, Viktor is sort of scarily perfect. If only he was my soulmate.”

Yuuri feels a sharp twinge at his wrist, and realizes why he was so shocked to see this boy’s—Viktor’s—face. He looks like Yuuri’s soulmate. Same blue eyes, but flat instead of sparkling. Same silver hair, short instead of flowing. Same pink mouth, but curved into a frozen smile instead of laughing wide and soft.

He looks _so_ much like Yuuri’s soulmate, the boy he skated with a million years ago in his dreams—but that’s impossible. Yuuri’s soulmate is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Thanks for reading!
> 
> Comments make me as happy as Ciao Ciao with a new bottle of fancy conditioner ;).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Very mild unhealthy thinking about food, untrue ideas about athletes needing to be thin to be fit (or, generally, the idea that being thin=being fit). Stay safe, friends! Message me if you need details or want to talk about anything, ever <3.

Viktor is warming up in the middle of the rink, watching the other skaters as they practice.

Mila is still working on her Ina Bauer, and Georgi is fussing with the flouncy hem of his new costume. Yuri pushes off for a quad toe loop but wobbles when he lands, the edge of his skate blade tilting too far inwards.

Viktor skates over to him. “Yuri, you need to hold your position all the way through until you land—even after you land. Follow through.”

Yuri gives him a flat look and skates away, brushing a spray of ice crystals off from his black leggings.

Viktor sighs. It doesn’t matter how he speaks to Yuri—whether he’s friendly or harsh, the young skater refuses to talk to him. Viktor doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, besides forcing the boy to tie his hair up the first time they met.

Maybe Yuri is embarrassed that someone else knows about his cursed mark, but Viktor hasn’t said anything to him about it. He just wants to help Yuri, to support him, as a skater if not a friend. He knows how hard it is to be already famous at such a young age, and he knows how painful it is to have a cursed mark, to live with the knowledge that you don’t have a soulmate like every other person in the world does.

Viktor watches Yuri laughing with Mila as she teases him about his size, lifting him in the air above her to prove that he barely weighs anything.

He wishes he could connect with Yuri more easily. He doesn’t know why, but Viktor’s drawn to the younger skater. While his personality is less than charming, something about him is compelling. Viktor feels like they have something in common, like they’re sad in the same way. He feels like Yuri needs him. And even more than that, he needs Yuri.

He’s curious about the boy who has the same name as his beloved, imaginary soulmate. He wants to take care of him, protect him—and this time, at least, he’ll know the Yuri he’s looking after is real.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by Yakov, who comes up behind him and claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. He’s holding the CD of Viktor’s free program music and his eyebrows are pinched downwards. To anyone else he would look terrifying, but Viktor knows Yakov is just concentrating.

He heaves a long sigh. “I’ve seen your routine in practice, and I think it’s good, Viktor. It’s elegant, mature. But so sad. Don’t you want to make your fans happy?”

Viktor tilts his head. “This is the only thing I can skate with emotion, Yakov. You have to trust me—this is what I need to do.”

Yakov taps the CD. “OK then, we’ll make it perfect. You have three months before the Grand Prix. Show me what you can do?”

Viktor nods, determined. Yakov clears the ice for him, and Mila starts his music. The melancholy, achingly sweet notes of _Stammi Vicino_ fill the rink, and Viktor allows his eyes to close for a moment, centering himself.

Then he begins. The program is longing embodied—a dance between him and someone who’s not there.

He’s not just performing half a dance, but painting an image of his invisible partner. Every spin and jump paints his dreamed soulmate in the air, shows how Viktor is always orbiting him, pulled towards him, drawn in like a planet circling the sun. He wants the dance to be loneliness and love in equal measures.

He feels the music swelling within him, swirling across his limbs, lifting him higher when he propels himself into the air. He reaches out his arms and can almost feel Yuuri within them. He imagines he’s dancing with him, staring into his rich brown eyes, and forgets to worry about his skating—he’s just moving, dancing with Yuuri like he would if he was real.

As the music comes to a close the vision fades away and he’s left alone again. His throat aches as he skates the last few steps, ending with his arm outstretched, reaching towards someone even he can’t see anymore.

He’s frozen in the silence, breathing hard, body quivering when he hears the applause. Mila and Georgi are cheering him on from the edge of the rink, Georgi wiping a few tears from his cheeks. Yakov stands beside them, clapping steadily, a look of pure contentment on his stern face.

Off to the corner is Yuri, looking down at his feet, his lips quivering and his shoulders hunched up like he wants to run away.

Viktor lets his arm drop and takes a melodramatic bow to make Mila laugh, then skates over to them.

Yakov nods at him. “That was good, Viktor. From now on you should focus on your spins—you didn’t maintain good posture during them. Also, your landings were clumsy, and you almost missed your quad because your lead in was off-time. Your timing in general is less than perfect. We’ll work on that. You get lost in the music too much. You can’t forget that you’re performing for an audience. And please, please, don’t look so sad when you’re skating—you make me think you hate this sport, Viktor— “

Viktor almost laughs, used to Yakov’s usual tirade of criticisms. “OK, Yakov, OK. I’ll work on all of it.”

Yakov closes his mouth. “Yes, good. I’ll give you my notes tomorrow and we can focus on the spins. Your costume will be done by the end of the week, so you should go for your final fitting as soon as you can.”

Viktor promises he will. “Can I be finished for today?” he asks Yakov. He’s feeling drained from his performance, and he’s not sure he can manage to skate any more. His whole body is shaky, unsteady. His mind is still filled with the image of Yuuri the music had created.

Yakov gives him a strange look; he’s not used to Viktor leaving practice early. Still, he agrees. “And go get something to eat, Viktor. You’re too thin lately.”

Viktor gives him a weak smile and slips his guards onto his skates before heading for the changing rooms. It’s true that he hasn’t felt very much like eating in the past months. He hasn’t felt much like doing anything besides going home to the apartment he rents now and sleeping with Makkachin curled up on his chest.

Viktor goes to the changing room and peels off his sweat-damp practice clothes. He finds a clean towel and goes to the shower, where he turns the water on as hot as it can go and steps under the spray. He lets the heat trickle down over his body without bothering to wash his hair. He’ll do that later, at home. For now, he just needs to stand still under the heat and let the tension dissolve out of his body.

He sighs, leaning against the wall of the shower. No amount of hot water is enough to sooth the ache and tightness in his heart. Viktor wonders if he’s making it worse, by designing his free skate program around what he’s lost.  
But what he said to Yakov was true—he needs to skate this program. Anything else would be dull and empty.

Viktor turns off the water and pushes his wet hair off of his forehead, wrapping the towel around his waist.

He’s changed in a few minutes and already looking forward to going home and watching a sugary sweet romantic comedy with Makkachin. He grabs his coat and bag and turns to head out the door when he sees Yuri hovering outside of the door.

Yuri jerks his head up at the sound of Viktor’s footsteps. He’s not crying, but his eyes are rimmed in red.

Viktor pauses, staring at him, not knowing what to say. Is this about his program? Did he make Yuri cry?

Yuri looks at him and grinds his teeth together. “Viktor! Old man. I’m hungry,” he nearly shouts.

“Oh, Okaaay,” Viktor says slowly. “Well, there’s a restaurant just a few minutes from here. They have good piroshki. Maybe you should try there if you’re hungry?”

He smiles at Yuri and is about to leave when the other boy grabs his arm and shakes him.

“No, stupid! You have to go with me,” Yuri growls.

At this point Viktor is completely lost. He thought Yuri hated him. The small boy is strong, and his fingers are pinching into Viktor’s arm.

“OK! Of course, I’ll go with you,” Viktor reassures him, gently detaching his arm. “It’s just this way,” he points.

Yuri sighs, like this wasn’t all his idea, and follows Viktor silently.

They walk to the restaurant without exchanging words, but when they get into the warm, cozy little booth and Viktor orders three types of piroshki for them, Yuri seems to open up.

He looks down at his lemonade, twirling his straw around and around. His blonde hair is down, falling into his eyes so that Viktor can’t really tell what he’s thinking. Eventually he opens his mouth. “I saw your program. I think I know what it’s about—I’ve lost someone, too.”

His voice is a little shaky and kind of angry sounding, but Viktor thinks that maybe angry is just how Yuri sounds when he’s scared.

“You’re right,” he tells him. “It is kind of about losing someone. It’s hard to explain but—really, it’s about loneliness. The feeling of being left behind, of being without someone who’s part of you.”

It feels strange, to bare his soul this much to someone he doesn’t know, someone who probably still hates him, but Yuri nods, still looking down at his drink. Little drops are rolling down the glass and creating a wet ring on the table.

The waitress comes back and sets the plates of steaming piroshki on the table with a flirtatious grin at Viktor. He gives her his own bland smile, and takes a few of the cheese piroshki for himself.

Yuri inhales the steam, licking his lips. He bites into a piroshki and moans.

“This is so good. It’s almost as good as my grandpa’s!” He inhales two more and then looks up at Viktor, who’s still taking tidy bites of his first.

“Is that who you lost?” Viktor asks. “You’re grandpa?”

Yuri shakes his head frantically. “No. I live with him, my grandpa. I’m really lucky.”

He pauses, picking at the food on his plate. “My mom died, when I was little. It was a long time ago.”

Viktor looks at how small and young he is, huddled up in the corner of the booth. “I’m sorry, Yuri. It doesn’t matter how long ago it was—I know it must still hurt.”

Yuri’s eyes flick back up to meet his. “Yeah. Who was yours?”

“Who was mine?”

“The person you lost. Whoever you were skating for back there.”

Viktor takes a drink of his tea. Should he lie to Yuri? He could tell him that he’s skating for his sister, who he hasn’t seen since he was a child. But if he tells Yuri about his curse, Yuri might explain his own silver mark.

“I got my mark when I was four,” he begins. Yuri’s face tightens when Viktor says the word mark, but then he gives him a small smile and nods at him to continue.

“I was so excited—but it was all wrong, Yuri. I’m cursed. The person I’m skating for is someone who doesn’t exist—my mark was silver. I’ll never have a soulmate.”

Yuri changes in an instant. His shoulders hunch up and his face twists into a mask of anger. He leans forward, his hands curling into fists on the table.

  
“Fuck you, Viktor. I’m so sick of people like you! Do you know what? I was born with my mark—I was born with it and it’s a part of me and it’s beautiful and I have a soulmate out there and someday I’m going to find him and we’re going to be in love forever, do you hear me? It’s not a curse! I’m not cursed!”

He’s shaking with rage, his face red. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and he’s choking but he keeps shouting. There’s a power, a righteousness in his voice—it’s so strong that Viktor shrinks back from him, almost scared.

“And I can’t believe you—your whole sick program is about a real man out there who loves you, and you’re acting like he’s gone, like he’s not even real just because you can’t handle the fact that he’s a man. You’re so lucky! I’m so lucky! It’s just love, Viktor. How can it be wrong? There isn’t anything more perfect and you’re so twisted you can’t even see it, god— “

His voice breaks and he shakes his head at Viktor, face still red and wet with tears. “I can’t believe you,” he mutters again, and then he’s sliding out of the booth and walking out of the restaurant without looking back.

Viktor is left alone at the table, staring at a pile of piroshki he can’t finish alone. He traces a finger through the water mark left by Yuri’s glass and takes a few deep, slow breaths.

Yuri is wrong. There’s no way that Viktor has a soulmate. His mark was a curse. His dreams of Yuuri were just dreams, hollow imaginings. He strokes over the scar on his wrist, feeling the smooth surface of it and the rough, ridged edges. _All that pain_ , he thinks. _It can’t have been for nothing._ He feels dizzy, lightheaded, like he might faint.

He lays his head against the table, feeling the smooth glass under his cheek and trying to block out the sounds and smells of the busy restaurant. He closes his eyes, takes more deep breaths, counting the seconds between his inhales and exhales.

The flirty waitress comes back with the bill and a handful of strawberry candies. She bends down close to Viktor so that he can smell her fruity shampoo. “Sir? Are you OK, sir?”

She strokes a hand down his arm and he jerks away. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

She looks unsure, but leaves him alone with another smile. He sighs and manages to lift his head from the table and shove a few bills under his mug, making sure to leave a generous tip.

He stands up and pulls on his coat, glad to hide the scar on his wrist under another layer. He can’t bear to look at it right now.

Viktor leaves the restaurant and is greeted with the crisp air of a chilly winter night. He hadn’t realized how long he was in the restaurant. He tilts his head up to look at the sky, wide and clearer than he’s seen it in a long time above the lights of the city.

The stars wheel through rich blue-black, free of clouds and fog. Viktor looks up through the glimmering specks and feels impossibly small and alone in the cold darkness. His mouth forms Yuuri’s name, calling out for him. _Yuuri, are you out there?_ He bites his lip and shakes his head at himself. He’s acting crazy.

He takes a harsh breath in and lets a few tears, hot and angry, fall from the corners of his eyes.

Viktor brushes them away and begins to walk quickly in the direction of home, heading back to Makkachin.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yuuri fails his third triple toe in a row and crumples onto the ice. Phichit skates over to him with Ciao Ciao just behind, both of them looking worried.

“Yuuri?” Phichit asks. “Are you OK?”

Yuuri moans. He feels awful, heavy and clumsy and pitiful. His last few practices have been disasters, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get better before—

Phichit takes his shoulder, forcing him to roll over and look into his coach’s concerned face.

Ciao Ciao takes one look at Yuuri’s anxious eyebrows and gives him a sympathetic smile.

“Yuuri, you know you don’t have to do it this year, right? It’s your first year with me—we can wait. You have time.”

Yuri shakes his head, grimacing at the feel of cold ice against his neck. “If I don’t even try for the Grand Prix this year, I’ll never go.”

Phichit grabs his hand and pulls him up. “Yuuri, you’re going to do great. I’ve seen you skating when you don’t think anyone’s watching—you’re so talented! Plus, Viktor’s going to be there and I _really_ need an excuse to see him in competition, so you have to go. For me.”

Yuuri looks at Phichit and rolls his eyes at his friend’s pleading tone. “Yeah, sure. We don’t even know if I’ll make it through the qualifiers yet. I have China and then Canada to get through, and the people I’m competing against are really, really good.”

Phichit nods. “I know, Yuuri. But I’m going to be there in Canada, too. We’ll make it through, OK? And if we don’t, we can marathon the Grand Prix together—I’ll let you read all my old skating magazines and we can cheer on Viktor from the comfort of our own dorm!”

Yuuri has a sudden image of their tiny dorm room strung with homemade banners for Viktor and Phichit dressed in his branded Viktor Nikiforov pajamas on the couch, throwing popcorn at the TV when the scorers don’t give Viktor a perfect score.

He turns to Ciao Ciao. “I’m going to do it this year. I’m going to make it to the Grand Prix. But the first qualifier is in three weeks and whatever I’m doing right now isn’t working. I can’t completely change my routines, but I have to try something different!”

Ciao Ciao strokes his long ponytail thoughtfully. “Yuuri, your talent has always been in emotion, in expressive movement. Maybe we focus less on the technical elements of your routines and focus instead on the stories behind them. Your short program is about hope, right? The hope of a young skater just starting his real career—so let it be tentative.”

Yuuri nods. It’s a good plan, and it will allow him to concentrate on his skills.

“And for your free skate,” Ciao Ciao continues, “that’s about love. Love for your family and country. Let your emotions shine, and keep your steps simple. We’ll reduce the rotations on your jumps. Your footwork is beautiful, and you’ll do well in presentation. Let’s not worry so much about the big jumps until you make it to the Grand Prix. “

Yuuri gives him a small bow. “Thank you, coach. I think I can do that. I’ll think about what elements of my routines I can shift. Tomorrow I’ll show you what I’ve changed.”

Celestino gives him a kind smile. “No need to be so formal, Yuuri. I know you’re nervous about the competition, but I’m going to be there to help you. And I’ll help you with honing your routines before China, too—that’s my job.”

Yuuri nods, grateful for his coach’s kindness. His stomach is still tight with anxiety, but it’s not as bad as before.

Phichit grins at him excitedly. “You’re going to be so great, Yuuri. I can’t wait to watch you.”

Yuuri wonders what he did to deserve so many wonderful people in his life. “Thanks, Phichit,” he murmurs. “Do you want to go get some pizza? I think I owe you from last week.”

Phichit turns to Celestino. “Ciao Ciao,” he chirps, “can we go? It’s been a long day and I don’t think I can skate any more. Yuuri definitely can’t! We need to refuel.”

Celestino laughs. “OK, go on. Maybe skip the extra cheese, though. You need to be fit for the qualifiers.”

Phichit smiles innocently. “I would never, Ciao Ciao.” He winks at Yuuri, and Yuuri’s pretty sure that Celestino doesn’t miss it. As they slide off the rink, he gives Yuuri a meaningful look and tips his head towards Phichit, probably as a reminder not to let the Thai boy gorge himself on cheesy pizza.

Half an hour later, after stretches and showers, they’re seated at a corner table in _Della Zona_ , the tiny pizza shop close to campus. Phichit is happily munching on a large cheese pizza with green peppers and Yuuri is enjoying a bowl of tomato basil soup with a few guilty-pleasure breadsticks.

Phichit starts on his fourth piece of pizza and sighs contentedly. “Who knew healthy could taste so good!”

“Phichit, not to burst your bubble, but—” Yuuri begins.

“Nope!” says Phichit. “No way, Katsuki. This—” he jabs a nail-polished fingertip at a green pepper on his slice “—is a vegetable! And I only ordered the regular amount of cheese.”

Yuuri nods, accepting the argument without much concern. Phichit is one of those people who can eat and eat and never really gain any weight. Yuuri thinks it’s because he has the metabolism of his pet hamsters.

Phichit looks over at Yuuri’s unindulgent soup. “So, Yuuri. How are you really feeling about the Grand Prix? Still nervous?”

Yuuri takes a moment to think about it. “I’m still nervous. I mean, I’m me,” he laughs softly. “But I really do feel like I need to do it now. This year, something about it feels right.”

Phichit nods, waiting for him to go on.

Yuuri swirls his spoon through his soup. “Phichit, do you believe in fate? Or like, destiny? Do you ever think things happen for a reason?”

Phichit stops chewing. “Yeah. I think I do. I guess I never really thought about it. There’s already a lot of fate in our lives—soulmates, right? That’s destiny.”

“You’re right,” Yuuri says. “But it’s even more than that. I feel like there’s some kind of pull. I’m just supposed to be there. I used to have these daydreams about my soulmate when I was little, before—they felt so real. And every time before I saw him, or imagined I saw him, I got that feeling, like a tugging, like we were magnets. This feels like that.”

“But your soulmate is—” Phichit stops, looking frightened. “Oh my god, Yuuri, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— “

Yuuri shakes his head. “No, Phichit. It’s OK. He is gone. I don’t think he’s going to magically appear at the Grand Prix, or anything. It’s just the same feeling, that’s all.”

“I think it’s a good sign,” Phichit tells him. “It must be. Maybe your soulmate, wherever he is, is looking out for you. Cheering you on.”

Yuuri smiles. “That’s a nice thing to think,” he says. “I hope he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for all your kind comments. I read and treasure every single one, and I can't express fully how happy it makes me to hear that people are reading and enjoying my writing. 
> 
> I promise that Viktor and Yuuri will meet (IRL!) within the next two chapters--honestly it was supposed to happen sooner but I got excited about writing Yuri and Phichit. 
> 
> Also, who knew Yuri would be our anti-homophobic hero?! It really bugs me when people say that Yuri is homophobic or doesn't support Viktuuri 100%. He loves them and just wants them to be happy and in love!!! Anyhow...Viktor is still a little slow on picking things up but remember, he's been conditioned for his whole childhood. I promise happier times are just around the corner!
> 
> Lastly, I know nothing about ice skating/competitive figure skating/the Grand Prix. It's all made up. If you're an expert, please let me know what mistakes I've made, but I might not change it since I don't have a ton of time for editing rn. I'm trying my best, so please don't be too annoyed with any mistakes!


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